Julia Justiss (9 page)

For an instant they were both in danger of falling. “Jenna!” he exclaimed, steadying her as he recovered his own balance. “Did a storm out of the Irish Sea blow you down the hallway?”

Jenna’s eyes focused on the drawing room behind Nelthorpe, filled with far too few Harries and far too many contemporaries—and perhaps friends—of the countess.

Into how many ears had the Lovely Lucinda whispered her sly allegations? How many ladies in splendid gowns would snigger behind their fans as Jenna walked by?

The rich widow…whose husband died pining for another man’s wife.

The Jenna of last spring would have faced them down. But as her fury receded, she simply didn’t have the energy.

“Take me home,” she said to Nelthorpe.

Eyes widening in surprise, he glanced behind himself and back, as if wondering to whom she’d addressed that order. “Me? Now?”

“Please.”

Speculation colored his gaze, but he asked her none of the questions that must be crowding his mind. “I’ll summon your carriage immediately.”

Relieved beyond words to escape, Jenna latched on to the arm he offered and let him lead her away.

E
ARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING
,
rather than take his usual ride to the park, Tony directed Pax toward the City. A few days ago Ned Hastings had dropped by the hell where Tony was currently plying his gambler’s trade, inviting him to an informal breakfast with Banker Harris.

Reluctantly bowing to necessity, Tony had agreed. Delaying wouldn’t sweeten the bitterness or humiliation of having to barter himself in marriage. Since he’d been able to envision no other way to avoid that fate and still salvage his estate, best to embrace the unpalatable solution before his luck with the pasteboards ran out.

Having forced himself to deal with duty, as he rode to meet Ned, Tony allowed his mind to linger on the much more pleasant memory of how Jenna Fairchild had felt in his arms after they collided in the hallway last night. How surprised and gratified he’d been that she’d trusted him enough to ask for his escort home.

After that tantalizing taste of closeness, however, she
retreated from him again, enveloping herself in a cocoon of aloofness that did not invite approach.

Actually, he ought to be relieved she’d been too preoccupied to converse in the carriage. With her seated close enough that her skirts brushed his boots and her hands on the seat nearly touched his own, he’d been far too aware of her to have summoned his usual banter.

Lean but a short distance and he’d felt the softness of her breath upon his face. The warmth and scent of her so close, not close enough, made his mind stutter and his senses giddy. He let himself imagine that he’d dared lean closer still, until he captured the softness of her lips…

“Tony! Over here!”

Ned’s halloo jerked him from erotic imaginings back to the prosaic bustle of the early-morning street. Relegating thoughts of Jenna Fairchild to the back of his mind, he turned his attention to the task ahead.

The house to which Ned guided him dwarfed in size, splendor and elegant furnishings that of the Nelthorpe dwelling on North Audley Street. The elder Mr. Harris’s banking business was apparently thriving indeed.

Harris welcomed them and invited the newcomers to fill their plates. Conversation during the meal ranged from the status of Europe now being debated by the Congress of Vienna to the current values in the investment market to the Whig versus Tory stands in Parliament. Tony ended the meal impressed with the shrewdness and depth of knowledge of the elder Mr. Harris.

Not by luck or accident had this man made his fortune.

After they finished the meal, Harris’s son invited Ned to inspect the glass house they’d installed to shelter their fruit trees, leaving Tony alone with his father. As soon as the two exited, Harris said, “My son tells me you are in need of a well-dowered bride.”

Surprised the banker had proceeded so bluntly to the
point, Tony swallowed a scalding mouthful of coffee. There being no point in evading the issue, once he could talk again, he said simply, “Yes.”

“What have you besides your aristocratic birth to recommend you? Since, given your reputation, your family name alone is little enough.”

Once Tony might have lashed out at a social inferior who dared address him thus. His father would surely have done so today. But two and a half years of living in the face of death had taught him to strip matters to their essential truths.

He couldn’t argue with this one.

Even so, chagrin and anger heated his face as he rose to his feet. “Then I expect there is no further point to this interview. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Sit back down, if you please,” Mr. Harris said. “I understand pride is a luxury you can no longer afford.”

Tony made him a bow. “Sometimes, sir, pride is all a man has left.” As ramrod straight as if passing in review on the parade field, Tony limped toward the door.

Slowed by furious despair and the still-considerable task of walking rigidly upright, Tony made it only halfway across the room before his host caught up with him.

“Nay, my lord, please stay. I didn’t mean to insult you, but I did need to take your measure.”

Convinced now that coming here had been a mistake, Tony tried to edge toward the door. “Indeed?”

“You came here to ask a favor of me, accepted the hospitality of my table. Do you not owe me at least remaining until I’ve finished saying what I wish to say?”

Lips tight, Tony nodded and limped back to his chair. Hopefully Harris would frame his lecture on propriety into a monologue—and keep it short. Tony might be obliged to listen, but for the price of a damned breakfast he had no intention of groveling.

“First, let me say that had you argued with my statement, or admitted its truth amid a profusion of promises to reform, I should have shown you the door. But a man who can face unpleasant truths and retain his dignity is a man who
does
possess something worth bargaining over. Do you still wish to leave, or shall I continue?”

Perhaps he should hear the man out. “Continue.”

“As you might imagine, testimonials to the profligacy of your character before you left England were easy to obtain and, pray excuse me, but your father’s deficiencies are well-known. My son tells me, however, that you were always fair and mindful of the men in your charge. What do you hope to achieve, should you manage to wed an heiress?”

“I mean to redeem my family’s debt, repair my estates and restore their ability to produce income.”

“And your reputation?”

Tony sighed. “Redeeming that may not be possible.”

“I expect much is possible for a man of grit and determination. I also know from observing my own son how profound a change can be wrought by army service. A change—” Harris gestured to Tony’s leg “—far deeper than the merely physical.

“So I made some inquiries,” Harris continued. “Since your return, you’ve visited your club but twice and incurred neither gaming losses or further debts with tradesmen. Such funds as you’ve won have been used to pay down your accounts with several merchants. And though you have visited a gaming house nearly every night, you play carefully—and virtually sober. As if,” he said with a penetrating glance, “you embarked upon gaming as a means of earning an income. Am I right so far?”

Having made so extensive an inquiry, Harris must have realized that Tony did in fact game to survive. Embarrassed nonetheless, he nodded stiffly.

“Am I also correct in assuming that, given your preference, you would rather not embrace matrimony as a means of solving your financial difficulties?”

Tony laughed shortly. “You may.”

“Without wishing to boast, I allow that I wield a good deal of authority among the financial community—a sort of ‘Wellington of the Cits,’ you might say. I was able to obtain a detailed list of your family’s financial holdings at all the firms which have…enjoyed your father’s custom.”

“Then you know how bad the situation is,” Tony said.

Mr. Harris nodded. “Indeed. Bad enough that the investors involved were happy to sell me the paper they held at a handsome discount. I now own all the outstanding obligations of the Nelthorpe family.”

Dread curdled the breakfast in his stomach as Tony realized the implications. With interest payments so long in arrears and the total sum of the debts so vast, Harris could easily demand an initial payment of overdue interest far greater than the modest amount Tony had amassed. And if Tony were unable to come up with the sum demanded, Harris could foreclose.

On everything.

Total ruin. Debtor’s prison. For a moment Tony’s vision blurred and the room began to spin.

Fighting off the dizziness, he forced himself to focus on the banker’s face. “What do you intend to do about it?”

To his surprise, Harris smiled. “I didn’t amass my fortune by calling in bad debts, if that is what you fear. I have instead rather a good record of profiting on investments that, to others, seemed a bit risky. So I have a proposal for you.” Once again, Harris gestured to a chair. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Even his good knee now going suddenly rubbery, Tony sank back into his seat.

“I assume your solicitor has told you the total amount of the debt your father accumulated. What interests me, besides that rather amazing sum, is that the earl recently signed an authorization permitting you to handle the family’s finances. Quite frankly, were I dealing with your father, I should foreclose and be done with it. But you, my lord, have shown a different mettle. And so I now propose to offer you a mortgage on the remaining assets you possess that are not currently encumbered, the money obtained to be invested in a variety of funds. The return on these—which, by the way, I expect to be considerable—I shall put toward repaying the other outstanding debts, minus a small allowance for your living expenses.”

“Despite the amount already owed, you would offer us—another mortgage?” Tony said, unsure he’d heard correctly.

Harris shrugged. “An audacious gamble, to be sure. But if the investments prosper as I expect,
you
will slowly earn your way back to solvency, while
I
will recoup funds on mortgages that otherwise had no hope of ever being redeemed. Of course, if the investments do poorly, I shall forfeit only a modest additional sum, whereas you would lose all you have. But,” he said with a smile, “I have every expectation of growing richer. And proceeding in this manner allows you to eventually get out of debt—without having to sell your name in marriage.”

For a moment, the image of Jenna Fairchild flashed into his head. “What do you wish me to do?”

Harris raised his eyebrows. “No questions?”

“Mr. Harris, we both know I am no businessman. As you trust to my military performance as a testament of my character, I trust to your son’s as an evidence of
yours. In any event,” Tony said with a wry grimace, “I haven’t many options, do I? Have we a bargain, then?”

“We do,” Mr. Harris confirmed. “Stop by my office later and my assistant will go over the particulars. With the small living allowance you’ll be granted, I suggest you abandon your gaming efforts and concentrate on learning to manage your properties. For advice on which, I refer you to your estate agent. Given what I’ve seen of the estate books, he’s a wizard at producing much from very little.”

Tony knew he wouldn’t be able to fully comprehend this unexpected shift in his circumstances until the shock had worn off—and he’d been able to review the details with Harris’s assistant. But the crushing burden that had weighed on him from the moment his foot touched English soil eased, making him feel suddenly almost euphoric.

He extended his hand. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Prove I wasn’t wrong to wager on you.”

Buoyed by the first hopeful news he’d received since his return home, as he walked out Tony was suddenly struck by the contrast between the home of the banker, a man his father would dismiss as a glorified clerk far beneath an earl’s notice, and his own dilapidated and dirty dwelling.

Though he appreciated his overworked staff’s efforts to keep the few rooms he occupied—his chamber, the library, and the breakfast room—presentable, the rest of the house remained in desperate need of cleaning, to say nothing of painting and repairs.

A maid’s salary couldn’t be much. Perhaps the services of a carpenter and painter might also be obtained for a reasonable fee—surely less than it had cost to keep one of his father’s hunters in feed—before he’d been forced to sell them all, of course.

He had to smile at the look of astonishment that would doubtless cross the earl’s face, should he discover his son planned to spend his winnings not on women, gaming or wine, but on cleaning and repairs.

Papa, I have lived in dirt and disorder long enough. I will not do so any longer in my own home.

Perhaps, he thought with a dawning sense of hope, Anthony Nelthorpe might salvage the family honor after all.

S
O LOST IN REFLECTION WAS
Tony that it wasn’t until he noticed he was now riding down a narrow, dead-end street that he realized he must have taken a wrong turn. A street, he realized, suddenly jolted back to the present, in what appeared to be a most unsavory neighborhood.

Evidently Pax didn’t find the surroundings to his liking either, for the gelding’s ears pricked up and he danced and pulled at the bridle.

Tony approved his mount’s obvious desire to vacate the area. No street in London was safe at night, but Tony knew that in a place like this, one might have his watch lifted—or his head bashed in—at any hour of the day.

Anger at his carelessness in wandering here alone sharpened the sixth sense instilled by years of war. Feeling more than seeing the shadows of several men approaching, he tightened his grip on the reins and prepared to give Pax his head. Weaponless but for his whip and with his weak knee, he’d be in a precarious position should anyone manage to unhorse him.

Even as that thought occurred, sending a jolt of alarm through him, a rough hand grabbed at his boot.

Jerking his foot away, Tony brought his whip down hard. His mount screamed and reared up, the menace of his iron-shod hooves sending two of the shadows fleeing. Tony swiveled, about to bring the whip down again on the man who’d grabbed his boot when a feeble glint caught his eye.

A glint, Tony realized, checking the blow, from what had once been gold lace…on a sleeve that bore a sergeant’s chevrons.

The soldier staggered backward, dirty hands raised to protect his head. “Lemme go! Didn’t mean ye no harm!”

“Ten-hut, Sergeant!” Tony barked.

Reacting instinctively to the command, the soldier snapped upright, swaying slightly. “Aye, sir!”

Wrinkling his nose against the strong odor of gin and sweat, Tony inspected the tattered, grime-faded uniform. “Dragoon, aren’t you? Which unit?”

“Sergeant Anston of the 16th, sir!”

“Captain Nelthorpe of the Royals. What are you doing, disgracing that uniform by accosting passersby like some common footpad? Wellington would have you strung up!”

“Aye, I reckon Old Hookey would, sir. But he don’t need us no more. No place for us back home neither, and a man’s gotta eat.”

“True, but all thievery will get you is Newgate or a prison hulk.” Falling back into the familiar habit of command, Tony assessed what he could do for this particular trooper. “Follow me home, Sergeant,” he said after a moment. “I’ll see you get a hot meal. Then we’ll discuss finding work that won’t end up getting you transported.”

“Thank’ee, sir, but I can’t leave. Got a family of sorts what depends on me. Not me own wife, ya see, but there’s a clutch of soldiers’ widows and their brats here, all with no place else ta go. I help ’em out, best I can.”

“When you’re not full of blue ruin?” Tony asked as he bent his mind to this new complication.

“Please, m’lord, let ’im go!” A thin woman clutching a babe wrapped in rags skittered from behind one of the doorways. “He didn’t mean yer worship no harm!”

“Don’t ye worry yerself, Peggy,” the sergeant said. “The cap’n here be only speaking with me.”

At his words of reassurance, an urchin darted out of the doorway. “Spare me a penny, yer worship?”

Ruefully Tony inspected the skinny child who gazed up at him with a gap-toothed smile, one hopeful hand extended. “How many more of these are there?” he asked the trooper.

“There’s two widows and seven young’ins here,” the sergeant said. “Near a dozen folk the next street over.”

Tony looked from the tattered sergeant to the wraith-thin woman to the grimy, barefooted urchin admiring Pax from a respectful distance. To these half-starved scarecrows, he must look like a prince.

Half-starved scarecrows who had followed their menfolk across a harsh land from battle to desperate battle. Men who had fought, bled and suffered for home and country.

’Twas unconscionable that this soldier and these soldiers’ kin had been reduced to accosting the unwary and begging pennies from strangers.

Rage welling up, Tony snatched some coins from his waistcoat pocket and thrust them at the sergeant. “Take these for now, Anston. I shall bring more later.”

The sergeant seized the coins and pocketed them. “Lord, Cap’n, don’t be flashing yer blunt on this street! There’s them what would cut yer throat fer a pence!”

Suddenly an idea occurred. “Can you paint?” Tony asked the sergeant.

The man blinked at him. “Ye mean—houses?”

“Yes.”

The sergeant scratched his head. “Never done none, but I reckon I could, Cap’n.”

“Then come round to North Audley Street tomorrow morning. There’ll be work and coins for doing it.”

“Aye, sir, I will. And thank ye, sir.”

“No thanks necessary. King and country, eh?”

The sergeant saluted. “King and country, sir! Now, let me lead ye out afore some cutpurse fancies yer horse!”

As he rode off, he had to smile, imagining the look of horror on Carstairs’s face when the grimy sergeant appeared on their doorstep. But his humor soon faded.

’Twas an outrage that men who had answered their country’s call and the families who depended on them had been cast aside and forgotten like refuse in that alley gutter. Reduced to thievery, begging—or worse, Tony thought, recalling the babe the woman held to her chest.

He would scrape together as much as he could spare to help this small group, but his meager earnings would not stretch to maintaining nearly two dozen folk. Furious about the situation and his own helplessness, he rode back to the comfortable streets of Mayfair. But as his anger cooled, a potential solution occurred.

His own resources were limited. But if he could find words eloquent enough to describe their plight, perhaps he could persuade Jenna to intervene. Having spent much of her life tending those among her father’s regiments who’d been sick, wounded or destitute, surely she would be moved to compassion by their urgent need.

As soon as he cleaned off the dust of his encounter with the sergeant, he would call on her.

J
UST BEFORE LUNCHEON
,
Jenna stared sightlessly over her book in the sitting room that adjoined her chamber, trying to shake off the lethargy into which she’d fallen since returning home last night.

Her mind kept replaying her odd encounters with Anthony Nelthorpe. Not sure whether she meant to honor the ridiculous bargain he’d forced on her in the park, she’d planned to avoid him the rest of the evening—and
yet paradoxically, when she’d felt as if she’d run mad if she didn’t escape Lady Charlotte’s reception, she’d been enormously relieved to stumble across him again.

He’d lived up to her instinctive trust, seeing her home in merciful silence, then bidding her good-night.

It hadn’t been one.

Unhappy dreams, no doubt inspired by the poisonous allegations uttered by the Blaine woman, had troubled her rest. Dropping her book with a thump, she shook her head. She simply mustn’t allow the woman’s claims to upset her. In her heart, she didn’t truly believe them. And besides, with the only other witness to the supposed event long dead, she would never be able to determine whether the countess’s assertions were true or not.

Lucinda Blaine was a vain, frustrated beauty who could not bear to believe her former love had found someone to replace her, Jenna told herself. Perhaps she was repenting her decision to choose wealth and title over youth and affection—if she had, in fact, ever loved Garrett.

Jenna ought to dismiss the incident from her mind—if only she could remove that last tiny splinter of doubt.

A rap at the door interrupted her troubling reflections. Instead of Sancha, Jenna found Lane Fairchild upon the threshold, smiling at her.

“May I come in? I feared, when I learned you’d requested a tray here rather than taking your meal below, that you might have overtired yourself last night.”

“No, I’m perfectly fine.” Wondering why he felt it necessary to track her down in her private sitting room, Jenna waved him to a chair.

“You did leave Lady Charlotte’s party rather abruptly. I’d scarcely arrived when I saw you departing. I wish I had had time to make my presence known, that you might have requested
my
escort home.”

He must have seen her with Nelthorpe. Did he also
know what had passed between them at Badajoz? Jenna felt her face coloring. “That is kind of you, cousin, but as you can see, I arrived back safely.”

“For which I can only be profoundly grateful!” He hesitated, then continued, “Jenna, I hope you will not think I am presuming to try to choose your friends, but I strongly advise you to avoid Lord Nelthorpe.

“Please—” he held up a hand to forestall her protest “—hear me out. I understand that Viscount Nelthorpe apparently served with honor in the army. However, before he put on regimentals, he was known to be a womanizer and a fortune hunter. You, who have spent your life around soldiers like your father and Garrett, might not realize that a uniform can hide a badly flawed character.”

Touched by his chivalry, but also a bit annoyed, Jenna said, “Cousin, I am not so naive that I do not realize the army contains rascals as well as gentlemen.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded, “but your goodness leads you to expect it in others, and your recent…losses may cloud your judgment. Nelthorpe might take advantage.”

Relieved that her cousin evidently
didn’t
know what had happened between herself and Nelthorpe, Jenna hid a smile. Lane’s warning came several years too late.

“I appreciate your concern, but I believe it groundless. After three years of wartime service, Lord Nelthorpe is most assuredly no longer the same man he was when he left England.”

“One would hope his character has improved,” Lane said. “Though I doubt such a man ever fully reforms.”

She had doubts about that herself. “Perhaps not. Still, I do not believe Lord Nelthorpe will harm me.”

Listening to the words she’d just spoken, Jenna suppressed a laugh. To be again defending Anthony Nelthorpe! Yet she realized she truly believed what she’d
said—had believed it before Harry vouched for him, despite the taunt of seduction with which he’d sealed their wager.

“You may be right,” Fairchild was saying. “But Nelthorpe’s reputation is still tarnished enough that being seen with him cannot but reflect poorly on your own. I understand he’s looking for a rich Cit’s daughter to marry.” Fairchild sniffed. “She’ll have to be wealthy indeed to keep Nelthorpe and his father—who is even more profligate than the son—in liquor and harlots.”

So Nelthorpe was hunting a wife? she thought in surprise. Though she shouldn’t be. How else was an aristocrat with no profession to repair his fortune?

Obviously misreading that emotion, Lane patted her hand. “I didn’t mean to distress you! I speak only from the sincerest desire to protect you. Indeed, though I realize ’tis far too soon to mention such things, I hope that at some future time, you may grant me the privilege of caring for you—permanently.”

There could be no mistaking his inference. Jenna looked away, uncertain how to respond. Since arriving in London, she’d noticed subtle things—a warmth of tone, a touch here, a guiding hand at her elbow there—that indicated Fairchild might be coming to view her in a warmer light. She’d been telling herself she was reading too much into what were only gallant gestures.

Apparently her instincts had been correct.

Best to put the matter firmly to rest. “I am, of course, honored,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But much as I esteem you, I do not foresee developing between us more than a…cousinly affection.”

“No more talk of it now,” he said with a sweep of his hand, as if brushing aside the words—and her protest? “For the immediate future, I hope you will continue to reside at Fairchild House.”

“Thank you. I expect I shall stay until the holidays at least.” She already knew that residing permanently with the Fairchild clan—and in the midst of the ton—was
not
what she wanted. But she’d promised Nelthorpe to remain until Christmas, and she would honor her word.

“Excellent!” Fairchild said. “Since you will be with us indefinitely, I’m afraid I must pass along another warning. Please be…careful in your dealings with Bayard.”

“With Bayard?” she echoed. “Careful in what way?”

“One not well acquainted with him might think him mild-mannered, if somewhat rough-spoken. That is not always the case, regrettably. Though he is indifferent to estate matters not related to his scientific explorations,” Lane’s voice took on an aggrieved note, “any person he perceives to interfere with those causes him to become extremely agitated. A few months ago, one of the footmen moved some of Bayard’s chemicals in order to fetch some port from the wine cellar. Bayard flew into a rage and flung the man against the wall, breaking his arm.”

“Bayard hurt someone?” she gasped, unable to credit her husband’s brusque cousin capable of such violence.

“It seems fantastical, but I’m afraid it’s true. I was present when the doctor examined the footman. So I suggest you avoid the area near his laboratory.”