DisobediencebyDesign (25 page)

“East of his canal, the Erie Canal is still viable, still
profitable. He wanted Cleveland Canal to appear profitable as well. So Ohio
Short Line secretly loaned Cleveland Canal vast sums of money. He’s been
showing these accounts to potential investors with stories about the success of
the Erie Canal, along with false drawings of plans to extend the Cleveland
Canal. The fools are falling for it.”

“Royston?” Arthur asked.

“Not yet. But that’s the plan.”

“So how does this hurt the duke?” Sophia was keeping up but
just barely.

“Eventually Oakham’s railway will call in the loans from
Oakham’s canal. Some of the money will have already been spent so they won’t
have the money to cover the payment. Cleveland Canal will be bankrupted and its
assets forfeited to Ohio Short Line.”

“And as owner of the railway Oakham walks away with the
money provided by the canal investors.” Geoffrey seemed impressed.

Joseph snorted. “Anyone who knows anything about
transportation in the States will see right through this. The canals are slowly
dying. No one is extending them.”

“Yes of course,” Lord Thuxton agreed. “The savvy investor
will simply walk away. The novice investor only knows America as the land of
unending wealth.”

“Royston may be stupid but he’s no novice,” said Arthur.

“He’s easily swayed, Petersham.” Lord Thuxton paced slowly. “Royston
has two weaknesses—he’s mired in the past to such an extent he despises
modernity, and he actively invests contrary to whatever I do. If I get word out
that I won’t invest in Cleveland Canal, Royston will, once approached by
Oakham. Plus the investment is attractive in that it involves a relic of
history.”

It seemed like quite a bit of effort for little gain. “So he
loses money, my lord,” Sophia said. “How does this destroy the duke?”

Lord Thuxton smiled weakly. “Royston is obsessed with money.
To not have any is a weakness, perhaps even a threat to his manhood. Oakham
will require an overwhelming contribution when he spouts his seductive promise
of riches.” He sighed. “It is no match for what he has done to you, Mrs.
Phillips. But it’s the best I can do.”

“I suspect he’s blackmailing my father,” Arthur said. “If he
is, he’ll still acquire an income from that.”

“Blackmail?” Lord Thuxton exclaimed. “What’s his game? He’s
already tried to ruin Sophie with slander.”

“To be honest I don’t know.”

“Papa is constantly loaning him carriages and such,” Sophia
added.

“Ah…” Lord Thuxton steepled his hands under his chin. “I’ll
have a talk with Richmond. If there is blackmail involved, we’ll work something
out where he ostensibly invests in the canal to reduce his payments. If it is
misplaced generosity, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.”

Joseph took her hand. “If Sophia allows the deceit, I’m all
for it. I don’t want any of it traced back to us, though.”

“It won’t be. I’ll make sure of it.” The earl turned to her.
“What say you, Mrs. Phillips?”

Was it really the best that could be done? Ruining his pride
in exchange for his assault on her, on Anna, on countless others, the murder of
Henny?

She sighed. “Yes, Lord Thuxton. Please do your worst.”

* * * * *

Sophia offered apologies as she took her leave while Lord
Thuxton stayed to chat with the men. Once in her room she rang for Anna then
stretched out on her bed in relief.

Anna entered directly.

Sophia patted the mattress at her side. “Geoffrey is a lucky
man.”

Anna blushed crimson as her hand flew to her mouth.
“Everyone knows, don’t they?” She sat on the bed. “Oh, I am mortified.”

Sophia grinned. “No. Only Joseph noticed his absence. But
that’s not why I called for you.” She slowly drew in a breath. “Anna, do you
know the Duke of Royston’s valet?”

Anna paled. “Jasper? Not very well. Just from working below
stairs at Harwell Hall.”

“From your brief association could you ascertain his
estimation of the duke?”

Anna shook her head with a heavy sigh. “Poor Jasper has a
sturdy streak of tolerance. He seemed to abhor the duke. All the servants did.”

“How difficult would it be for you to get something to
Jasper? An object that might implicate the duke in a crime he claims never
happened? Of course you should not put yourself in any danger.”

Anna lifted a brow as if comprehending. “I can manage such a
task, my lady.”

Sophia smiled. “Good. First I’ll tell you my plan, then you
can tell me all about Geoffrey.”

Arthur crumpled the invitation to a private interview with
his father. Not a message scratched in Father’s own hand, no, but a formal
request written by Billings addressed to “Lord Petersham” no less. He threw the
missive in the library fire. They would never truly be father and son if this
was any indication of Father’s familial affections.

He should have walked but he took his brougham instead. The
drive was not nearly long enough to cool his indignation. He arrived still
seething. Billings, the ever-stalwart secretary, ignored his curt tone and
thinned lips as he led him into the somber study.

“How can I be of service, my lord marquess?” Arthur said
snidely.

“Don’t start, Arthur. I’ve got Royston watching me. I had to
use my general correspondence as a safeguard.”

“Oh? Have you changed your mind?”

“Not about Sophie, no. I still think what she did was…” He
threw his hands in the air. “Ill-advised.”

Arthur kept his mouth shut. If they were ever to reconcile,
it would be best to listen.

“He’s got me. He’s blackmailing me down to the very
farthing.” He slumped into a visitor’s chair. “I’m ruined.”

Arthur took the chair opposite. “If it’s money you wanted to
talk about, I can certainly help.”

Father offered a weak smile. “I’ve heard your scheme is
moving ahead. Not one of your investors defected due to the scandal.”

“I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Father. We
explained the situation truthfully and no one backed out. We’re not profitable
just yet but if you need money—”

“No. Royston is calculating enough to not bleed me dry. More
than likely I will have to keep paying for his lavish lifestyle until the end
of my days.”

The irony was not lost on Arthur. “And had you married
Sophie to that man she would have had to endure your burden until the end of
hers.”

“She’s young. She would have outlived him.”

Arthur stood and paced the carpet. “Henny did not.”

Dubiousness glazed his father’s eyes then melted into
realization. “He would not have destroyed that which was truly his. That’s why
he stopped at mere rumor where it concerned you.”

“‘Stopped at mere rumor’? He could have ruined me!”

“But he did not. He knows you’re clever and diplomatic
enough to extricate yourself from a difficult situation. He is potently aware
that I raised you properly no matter what your circumstances of birth.”

Arthur rounded on him. “My what?” And then Father’s words
from the week before sank in.
You are no son of mine
. “What the hell is
this about, Father?”

“Matilda.”

“Mother?”

“And Royston.”

Mother and Royston?
Arthur’s gut churned. “What about
them?” he asked icily.

“Royston claims you are his son. Your mother, of course,
denies it.”

Arthur staggered backward, falling against the desk. “No.
God no.”

“And there, I’ve said it.” Realization dissolved into tears.

Arthur had never seen Father—his father, he was absolutely
certain—cry.

“Yes,” Father croaked. “I’ve been a fool. I was fond of your
mother at the time, she was—and is—a fine companion. I was never
in love
with her, as you children today feel is so important for a marriage. Such
sentiment was not important for us. The partnership was primary. So when she
developed a fascination with Royston—who was not a duke at the time, mind you,
only the heir—I let her. That is the unspoken rule when one marries for duty. I
didn’t know him at the time—I didn’t know his tastes, his predilections. I also
did not know my own wife’s predilections.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “I’ve
since adopted those tastes to keep her from straying again.”

“Father, you don’t need to tell me such things.”

“Yes I do!” he bellowed, the deep lines of his forehead
twisted. “The affair was about twenty-five years ago.”

Arthur stared at him incredulously.

“Yes, your mother and I did have relations at the time. We
were both young and it is natural for young people to be intimate. But we had
been married for a little over a year and had not had a full life in the
bedroom. Matilda met Royston—Giles, as she called him then—at a party. He was an
older man, in her eyes a sophisticated man, a handsome stranger who was paying
her mind and she fell head over heels for him. After that our own intimacy grew
as he was riling up her passions as I had never done. She was insatiable.”

Arthur really did not want to hear
that
about his own
mother.

“And then she became with child. Royston realized she was no
longer his plaything. She was fully my responsibility. So he left. When you
were born I could barely look at you.” His father met his eyes. “I can barely stand
your presence now.”

Arthur stood frozen. No wonder the marquess had never been a
good father to him. “I am not his son,” he spat. “I am not Royston’s son. Can’t
you see that?” They needed a mirror.

The entryway, where women checked their bonnets.

He grabbed Father’s arm, hauling him out of his chair, out
of the study, past a stunned Billings and frightened servants to the entryway,
stopping before the enormous mirror that hung above the hall table. He wrapped
his arm around Father’s shoulder and drew his face alongside. Father averted
his eyes.

“Look at me. At us.”

Father reluctantly stared at their reflection.

“I am your son, Arthur Harwell, the one who is your heir,
who will one day be what you are now, the Marquess of Richmond, who, until that
time, is graced by courtesy with your title Earl of Petersham. Can you not see
this?”

Father stared at Arthur’s brown hair then his own faded with
gray. He studied their eyes, both rounded pairs set with greenish brown irises,
Arthur’s perhaps a bit more green like Mother’s, separated by the same broad
bridge. His gaze trailed down his nose, the twin of Arthur’s except with a tiny
quirk of the tip to one side then arrived at the mouth, a wide slash with
neither upper nor lower lip too generous. Father’s complexion was uneven, his
skin sagged with lines of age and worry, his lashes still damp from tears.

“Tell me you see a likeness, Father.”

“Arthur, please—”

“And if you do not believe this reflection, you may gaze
upon the faces of our illustrious ancestors. I’m certain you will see my own
image painted there.”

Father pulled away. “But why do you insult our family, first
with Sophia and that man and now with threats to end the title? My son would
have respect for his heritage.”

“You have never treated me as your son, Father.”

The marquess stared at him through narrowed eyes. “No. I
will admit I did not.” The lines on his face softened as he sighed.

“You don’t need to suffer his blackmail anymore. Tell him
you have realized I am your son and he holds no sway over you.”

“He would still spread rumors to cast doubt.”

“We would both deny them.”

“Ah but then he would expose Matilda.”

“He would expose that the Marchioness of Richmond had an
affair when she was a young girl of twenty?”

Father held his gaze. “He would expose that the Marchioness
of Richmond enjoys being tied up, whipped and fucked in the arse.”

“Good God.” Arthur’s head spun.

“Whatever you do don’t tell Sophia.”

Arthur shook his head in grim astonishment. “No. Of course I
won’t.” He grabbed his hat from the hall stand. “Let me at least invest
something for you.”

“No. I won’t be part of that. He’ll know and raise his fee
for continued silence.”

“All right,” Arthur conceded. Of course Father could not
prevent him from secretly investing in the name of the Marquess of Richmond. “Sophie
misses you. She misses her papa.”

Father’s eyes reddened, the corners pooled with tears. “I
never wanted to hurt her. You must believe that. Duty compelled me, Arthur, not
cruelty.”

Arthur settled his hat on his head. “Know that she’s happy
now, Papa.”

Arthur nodded his goodbye, his final image of his father
sobbing into his handkerchief.

London, 22 March 1861

Joseph checked in with the aged concierge at the Merchants
and Industry Club, unable to stand still as the man dragged a frail finger
slowly down the roster of expected guests.

Arthur dashed into the lobby from the main club room and
grabbed his arm, shooting the concierge an apologetic grin. He led Joseph into
the smoky, oak-paneled room.

“This had better be important, Arthur. My wife is about to
give birth any moment now.”

“I know, I know. Thuxton’s asked for your presence.”

“Thuxton?” Joseph arched a brow.

“Yes. Also I have great news from Geoffrey. Just follow my
lead.”

Business. Always business. Yet today a not-unwelcome
distraction from the stress of imminent fatherhood. “Okay.”

Arthur smiled and waved overtly at Thuxton, who waved back
from across the room, Leonard Prescott and Harland Moseby at his side. Everyone
present—well anyone not with his nose in a newspaper or snoring in a
too-comfortable chair—knew the Earl of Petersham and the Earl of Thuxton were
meeting and had invited the man who had scandalously married Petersham’s
sister.

Everyone…including the Duke of Royston.

Royston sat in a leather club chair, chewing on a cigar and
loudly turning the pages of the
Cleveland Canal Company Annual Report
1859-1860
, the cover prominently displayed, each rustle of paper accented
with snorts and chuckles. Otherwise the room was, as per usual, rather dull and
quiet.

“Ah, Phillips.” Thuxton shook his hand. “Glad you could join
us. I’ve just heard of your great success and I wanted to congratulate you
before your departure for America.” He spoke in his normal conversational tone,
which resounded in the hushed room.

Joseph glanced at Arthur, who offered an encouraging nod. “Thank
you, my lord.”

“And Lady Sophia…is she well?”

Royston stopped turning pages.

Joseph understood. “She is very well indeed. We are
excitedly awaiting the birth of our child.”

“Splendid,” Thuxton said with far too much enthusiasm.

Several club members looked up.

“Petersham here tells me Peel has sent some good reports
from New York.”

Arthur grinned a genuine grin, which meant the news was
truly good and not part of whatever game they were playing. “Peel says your
designs are causing quite a stir. There’s been some bidding for exclusive
contracts. Apparently railroad magnates are impressed with the idea of artistry
and elegance on a mere undercarriage.”

Joseph’s heart skipped a beat. “Sophie. That was Sophie’s
idea.” He broke out in a grin bigger than Arthur’s. He couldn’t wait to tell
her.

“The New York office of Harwell and Company is working
diligently on all the contracts. Peel does mention the name of the company with
the largest order.” Arthur fumbled through his pockets, pulling out objects and
pieces of paper, an obvious stall for dramatic effect. Finally he found
Geoffrey’s letter. “Ah yes, here it is. The Ohio Short Line.” The last was said
with too much flair even for Arthur.

Joseph struggled to not look Royston’s way.

“Ohio. That’s one of your Middle Western states, is it not,
Phillips?” Thuxton’s voice boomed.

“Yes, my lord. Very prosperous agricultural area.”

Royston stood and came toward them. Joseph’s stomach churned.

“What’s that you say? Ohio Short Line?” He brandished the
report he had been perusing. “I’ll have to have a word with them. Surely your
artistic nonsense doesn’t make the railway trains go any faster.”

“Ah, Your Grace, so good of you to join us.” Thuxton dripped
charm. “I’m rather fond of Phillips’ designs. Passengers will prefer to ride a
railway with a touch of refinement, I’m sure.”

Royston grunted.

“But if you have their ear, this Ohio Short Line will
certainly listen to you. Are you a stockholder?”

“I’m a major investor in their subsidiary, the Cleveland
Canal Company.”

“Canals! That was a risky move.”

“I rather think it was a wise one.” He flipped through the
pages of the report. “They increased their profits just this year.”

Joseph and Arthur remained silent during the exchange.
Thuxton was clearly running the show.

Thuxton placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Well,
Petersham, perhaps you better telegraph Peel to hold off on that Ohio Short
Line order.”

Arthur nodded and was about to speak when a club errand-boy
called out.

“Your Grace!” The boy approached and presented dispatches on
a silver tray.

Royston picked up the envelope on top. “What’s this?” he
asked unpleasantly.

“A notice, Your Grace, that your membership dues are in
arrears and credit is no longer extended.”

Royston’s eyes widened. He raised his hand as if to strike
the boy. “You little—” He stopped abruptly.

“And, Your Grace,” the boy continued with a tad less
enthusiasm, “a telegram for you. From Ohio in America.”

Royston took the card.

The boy hesitated. “Will you be wanting to send a reply,
sir?”

“No. Go,” Royston growled and turned his attention to the
communique.

The boy exchanged a surreptitious glance with Thuxton before
he left.

Suddenly Royston turned the darkest shade of crimson Joseph
had ever seen on a man.

“Your Grace! Is everything all right?” Thuxton oozed
concern.

“Bloody bollocks,” Royston rasped. “Bloody, bloody bollocks!”
He crumpled the telegram then shoved it into his pocket. He slammed his book to
the floor. “You.” He turned to Joseph, their eyes meeting at the same level,
and stabbed a finger at his chest. “You and your damn ideas.”

Thuxton held his hand between them. “Your Grace, please.
How, pray tell, has Phillips caused offense?”

Royston turned his wrath on Arthur. “Your father is ruined.”

Arthur paled. “My father?”

Thuxton intervened again. “The Marquess of Richmond? What
has happened, Your Grace?”

Sweat beaded on Royston’s brow. “Bankrupt. Cleveland Canal
is bankrupt and your father was an investor. Seems Ohio Short Line is to blame.”
He threw down his cigar and ground it out on top of the report. “You and your
damn railroad.”

“What a shame,” Thuxton said coolly. “Surely there’s a bit
left over for club dues, no?”

Royston seized his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and
whipped it up to mop his forehead, flinging an object into the air in the
process. A metal object. Gold metal.

It fell to the carpet.

Silence descended as all inspected the precious item, a
woman’s gold necklace and locket.

Joseph stared, incredulous, horror and hatred prickling his
skin.

“My God,” Arthur gasped. “That’s Sophie’s. The one she lost
the night of the Wrexham ball.”

Thuxton picked up the locket. He opened the compartment with
trembling fingers and studied the pictures inside. “Sophia and Lady Henrietta.
So it’s true.” He glared at Royston. “You blackguard,” he huffed. “You
despicable cur. How could you?”

“Bloody scoundrel,” Prescott snarled.

“Loathsome miscreant,” Moseby muttered.

Royston paled. “I don’t know where that came from—”

“
You fucking bastard
.” Joseph swung back and slammed
his fist into Royston’s nose, the crack of bone startling those seated to
stand.

Royston wobbled and crumpled to the carpet, holding his
face, blood streaming between his fingers. “You’ll pay for that, Phillips!
You’ll pay!” He waved a bloodied hand in the air. “You all are witness to the
assault of a peer!”

One by one, the club members filed out of the room. Thuxton
turned his back to the scene, indicating with a quirk of his head those
remaining do the same.

Joseph watched from the corner of his eye as two very large
club guards grabbed Royston and dragged him from the room.

Thuxton draped his arms around Arthur’s and Joseph’s
shoulders, drawing them into a huddle. “They’ll throw him out the back door. For
your peace of mind, gentlemen, I’ve posted a man to watch your house should the
duke do something rash.” He gave them both a quick squeeze. “Phillips, go home
to your wife.” He placed the necklace in Joseph’s palm. “Petersham, telegraph
Peel with my immeasurable thanks.”

Joseph dashed out.

Sophie
. He couldn’t wait to see Sophie.

* * * * *

Southampton, 18 April 1861

Arthur inhaled the pungent, salty air then exhaled in
satisfaction. It was a beautiful spring day. Perfect for setting sail, or
rather, setting off on a large steamship across the Atlantic.

He would really miss Sophia and Joseph. He would especially
miss his perfect little niece, Helena.

As they packed for the journey Joseph had confided he was
worried about the road ahead, that the business would fail or the business
would be a ripping success and he wouldn’t be able to handle all that money.
Arthur had assured him Sophie would know precisely what to do with all that
money. Besides, Geoffrey and Anna—Mr. and Mrs. Peel—had paved the way for them
in New York. Geoffrey had set up the American subsidiary of their firm, had
found a lovely brownstone in fashionable Greenwich Village a world away from
the squalor of the port, had moved Joseph’s parents there, and Anna was busy
readying the place for the new baby. Feathering a nest came naturally to her as
she was now with child. Joseph had beamed at the news. Fatherhood suited him.
It would suit Geoffrey as well.

In the railway carriage to Southampton Joseph’s excitement
for the journey home had provoked a flirtatious giddiness on Sophia’s part,
prompting Arthur to take his darling Helena to the far corner of the private
car while Sophia and Joseph trifled and teased. He ignored them. He wanted to
spend a few moments with Helena,
his
Helena, for she was, most likely,
going to be all he would ever know of children. Over the last few months he had
struggled with his rash ultimatum to Father. But he would never find love as he
had with Henny and without such love he could never bring children into the
world.

Now before him loomed the gateway to the vast Atlantic.
Waves broke against the pier as melancholia crashed over him. He had relied too
much on Sophia, Joseph and Helena for his happiness. Geoffrey and Anna would return,
of course, but they would be busy with their own lives as a family. He had not
seen his parents for months and was not likely to see them in the near future.
He’d have to seek camaraderie in his club filled with dull men and a mistress
who would want diamonds and God only knew what else to keep her legs spread and
the conversation going on a regular basis.

He wasn’t the only solitary figure gazing out at the sea. On
the edge of the quay stood a woman, bent a little from age, dressed entirely in
mourning, her black veil covering her face, obscuring her view of the port from
whence her lover, a soldier heading to the Peninsular Wars, had been ripped
from her life.

Arthur chuckled to himself. His despondency had made him
maudlin.

The woman turned and saw him. She stilled a moment,
hesitating, thinking, and then came toward him.

And when she got close enough for him to see beyond the veil
he recognized his mother.

She made no bold movements, did not rush to take him into
her arms. She approached calmly, an action completely at odds with the emotion
twisting her face and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Arthur,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. She cleared
her throat.

“Mother,” he greeted her in return, struggling against the
lump welling in his own throat. “Is Father well?”

“Ah yes, the mourning,” she chortled. “Your father is fine.
I’m incognito. I just wanted to see them, even if from afar. I was worried I
would be too late. I’m not too late, am I?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “You’re early in fact. The ship
doesn’t leave for a couple of hours.”

“Good.” She glanced side to side. “Where is Sophia?”

“Over—”

“Don’t point. Don’t move. I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“You do want to see your grandchild, Mother, don’t you?”

“Yes, dear. I do. Very very much. But I came to tell you
something first. Something I have to say to you in person. No letters and no
one else who could hear.”

A chill of foreboding crept up his spine. “Go ahead.”

“I know what Harold told you and I know what he believes
about you. All these years I have been telling him who you really are and he
won’t believe me.”

“Who am I, Mother?”

“You are your father’s son. You are the son of Harold
Harwell, the Marquess of Richmond.”

“And how can you be sure?” Arthur suddenly thought he might
not want to know.

“Because Giles never spent inside me.”

“Oh God. Don’t tell me such things,” Arthur groaned.

“I will tell you and you will listen because you need to be
convinced as well. Giles needed the violence to maintain his, well, his
potency. But he couldn’t control it. I became very handy with a birch rod,
almost too good really. I could make him spend while he was spread-legged and
doubled over a flogging bench. That’s why I always went to your father
afterward. Not because I was excessively lustful but because I was unsatisfied.”

Arthur’s head spun with disgust and fascination. “Did you
not explain this to Father?”

“I did. But Giles sustained the fiction with lies and
falsehoods, taunting Harold, comparing them, which one was the better lover,
which one was man enough to father a child, to father a son. In the end Harold
refused to believe me. His pride was hurt and he’s carried a grudge for
twenty-five years.”

“He’s still carrying it.”

“No… Something you did made him think it all over. You were
brilliant to make him look at you the way you did. He’d never really looked at
you before. I kept telling him you have his eyes and nose. Now he is beginning
to believe it. But now it is you who’s hurt his pride, standing up to his
decision to marry Sophie off to that monster, forcing him to give in to
Royston’s blackmail, refusing to give him an heir. I hate to think of how long
it will take him to come around this time.”