A Lady Most Lovely Page 4

  “Isn’t she about to get married?” Tom said, trying to ignore the sudden thrill that ran through him at the thought of Miss Vaughn in his arms. “Don’t newlyweds generally go off to the Continent or some such place?”

  “Oh, that’s not for several more weeks. Now that I think about it, there’s no need to wait until the soiree to see her. You’re liable to run across her tomorrow, anyway.”

  Tom advanced toward him. “I told you, the meeting is between me and Denault—”

  James retreated behind Lizzie’s chair and put up a hand. “I meant that you may see her in that charming square outside. I believe she goes for a walk there in the mornings.”

  “She does? Why would she go there?” Tom didn’t think there was anything remarkable in the little patch of grass and oak-lined paths around which the town houses were clustered. Surely Hyde Park would be a more interesting destination.

  “She lives right across the square at number fifteen.”

  Tom looked at him dumbfounded. “She does?”

  “Yes,” James said, the glint returning to his eye. “Isn’t that convenient?”

  *

  Tom stood at the window of his darkened bedchamber, staring into the night. The fog lay heavy on the city, although a soft breeze broke it into patches here and there and gently rustled the leaves in the trees. A half-moon shone brightly overhead, slicing through the fog and adding its light to the street lamps below, sending the park into an intriguing play of light and shadow.

  Tom had been bred in this city, but his years in Australia had made him appreciative of the special kind of peace found only in the countryside. In a few weeks the “season” here would be over, and he and Geoffrey would ride out to inspect the harvest at the Somerville estate in Kent. It would be a welcome break from the smoke and noise of the streets—not to mention the stuffy confines of overly elaborate drawing rooms.

  Lizzie would go, too, if she was able. They were taking every precaution. No one said it aloud, but everyone was thinking of the terrible things her half sister Ria had endured during childbirth. In the end, both Ria and her baby had died. The possibility that Lizzie might have inherited the same physical weakness was weighing heavily on her mind. She had tried not to show this, but Tom knew. He’d done all he could to reassure Lizzie, to remind her that Ria had a different mother, and that Lizzie and Tom’s mother had been quite hearty in childbearing. And yet, in his innermost heart Tom could not deny that he was worried, too. Lizzie was the dearest thing in the world to him. She was all he had now.

  Clouds moved across the moon, darkening the city below. Tom thought of Margaret, on the other side of this very square. He knew which house it was from the way James had described it. It was not the most elegant town house on the square, but it was well kept. It probably was no match for the more fashionable homes in Belgravia, the neighborhood to the southwest where, as James had explained to him, the most elite were moving to, leaving Mayfair with an air of being just a bit “last season.” He smiled at the thought. How well versed he was becoming in society’s outlook. And yet how far he still had to go.

  He could not see number 15 from here, due to the angle of the homes around the small oval park and the oak trees that stood between them. But he could imagine Margaret as clearly as if he were looking at her. He envisioned her standing at the window of her bedchamber, gazing out at the same bit of fog-laced green that Tom was looking at. He pictured her in a thin white nightdress, which covered but did not hide the shape of her curves. Or perhaps she had pulled on a satin dressing gown to protect her from the chill of the foggy night air. Her hair would be loose, curling down around her shoulders, long and full, the rich brown strands glistening in the moonlight. Perhaps he and Margaret were looking at each other right now and didn’t realize it. Everything in him ached with desire at that thought.

  He laughed at himself and shook his head. “Tom, you’re a crazy bas—” He cut himself off. Swearing was one thing he had been trying very hard to curb. It was not the mark of a gentleman or, more important, of a Christian. Sometimes Tom doubted he would ever be successful at being either of those things. He wanted his words to always be seasoned with salt, as the Bible said, and speak only things that would edify. It was a tall order.

  He returned to his bed, stretching out and savoring the excellent feather mattress. It was, he thought wryly, one of the few comforts he found in London.

  No matter what he did, he could not manage to quell his uneasiness at being back in England. The things he had done before he’d left here—his duel with Freddie Hightower among them—still seemed to haunt him. It was foolish, of course. Freddie was dead, and there was no one outside the family who knew of this part of his past. And yet, being back in the city brought so many bad memories to the forefront of his mind.

  He missed Edward and Ria, and the life he and Lizzie had built with them at McCrae’s sheep station. At times his heart ached for those simpler days, for although they worked hard, day in and day out, they had so many simple pleasures. Ria and Edward were blissfully happy, and Tom and Lizzie were content. It had all been destroyed the day bushrangers had killed Edward. But he had to remember that those terrible days had been the catalyst for bringing Lizzie to London, and for her ultimately finding such deep happiness with Geoffrey.

  He was living between two worlds, really. He had not made up his mind to stay in England permanently—he’d wanted only to see Lizzie again—to be sure that she was happily settled. Beyond that, his plans were uncertain.

  And yet, what need had he to return to Australia? The business he and Sullivan had started was prospering, and Sullivan was an able manager. They had already quadrupled the earnings from the gold they had dug out by their own hard labor. He had no wish to go back to mining. He was through with that rough, unforgiving life. But neither did he wish to live the indolent life of a “gentleman.”

  “Lord, what am I to do?” He spoke softly, sending up the words as a prayer, even as he lay flat on his back in the bed with his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He’d never felt the need to go down on his knees when he prayed—he figured the Lord could hear him in any posture he happened to be in.

  He wanted a life that gave him purpose. Many assumed he was content, given his newfound wealth. But something was missing. Something was still just out of reach. And for some unaccountable reason, the woman he’d been picturing across the fog-shrouded square made him more aware of it than ever.

  Chapter 4

  Denault rose from his seat at a large table, upon which several large rolls of paper were spread about. He shook Tom’s hand warmly. “Thank you for coming.” He motioned to the other chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Tom remained standing. “Perhaps you might first tell me exactly what this meeting is about.”

  His curt words did not seem to put off Denault in the least. “I see you are not one to waste time,” he said approvingly. “Trust me. I’m just as eager as you are to get to the heart of the matter. Very well then, I’ll give it to you in one word: railways.”

  Railways? “You’re not serious,” Tom said.

  “Deadly serious.” Denault’s earnest expression matched his words.

  “I’ve been out of the country and missed most of what they called the ‘railway mania,’ ” Tom said. “But I read the papers. I know more people went broke than actually made money. And in any case, the prime years for investing in the railroads are past.”

  “In England, maybe,” Denault conceded. “There are already six thousand miles of track crisscrossing this small island. It is just about played out. But in other countries the building boom is just beginning.”

  “You are thinking of Australia, perhaps?” Tom knew that there weren’t yet any railways in Australia, save for a few precarious tracks in Van Diemen’s Land where the carriages were actually drawn by convict labor. Tom had never even seen a train up close, much less ridden on one.

  “There is great need, no doubt,” Denau
lt said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Perhaps that might be a focus of a future project. However, for the moment I am speaking about America.”

  “America?” Tom repeated. “I thought you just completed a rail line there.”

  “America is a vast place, my friend,” Denault said, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture. “It is infinitely larger than Britain, and much further behind on railways. They’ve only just managed to reach the Mississippi River, the center of their big country. The next big push will be from Saint Louis to California. I’m telling you, the place is ripe for expansion.”

  Tom’s knowledge of American geography was sketchy, at best. “Granted, the tracks have not been built. But why build them? And why now?”

  “Good heavens, man! Haven’t you heard? There is gold in California, and rumors of silver in Nevada.”

  “I’m well aware of the gold in California,” Tom said drily. “It was the unsuccessful prospectors from California who first came looking for gold in Australia.”

  “And they found it! See what an advantage that was to you!” Denault exclaimed, pouncing on his words with enthusiasm. “Now you have a chance to invest it and turn your hard-earned gold into more money than you ever dreamed of. People are absolutely desperate to reach the West, and there is just no good way to get there. It takes months by wagon train, and the dangers are immense. The only other route is to go around Cape Horn, and you know how harrowing that is.”

  Tom considered this. Denault was right about Cape Horn—the passage across the violent icy seas at the tip of South America was just about the worst thing Tom had ever endured. It was the only time in his life he’d actually been seasick. He knew full well why people would avoid traveling that way if they could.

  Denault continued to speak excitedly. “We will be bringing more than just the railway. We will be giving employment to thousands of people, establishing towns, and enabling civilization to take root in that wild place.”

  “Are there really thousands of people available to build it? Does that much labor exist in America?”

  Denault shrugged. “Think of your own experience in Australia. How many people flooded into Melbourne and Ballarat when they learned there was important money to be made there?”

  Denault had a point, although to Tom’s way of thinking the chaos brought by all the newcomers had not necessarily been a good thing. “How many miles are we talking about? And aren’t there mountains somewhere between Saint Louis and California?” Tom thought of the steep cliffs and box canyons of the Blue Mountains, of how they’d only just managed to build a road through there with the endless labor of convict gangs. He could not even imagine trying to build a railway through it. He had no idea what the terrain of the Sierra Nevada was like, but a mountain was a mountain, after all.

  “There is a pass through the mountains,” Denault assured him. “We have a cracking good engineer who has figured out all those technical details.”

  “Are those the plans?” Tom asked, pointing to the table.

  “Yes, indeed.” Denault unrolled one of the large papers. “It’s drawn to scale, one inch per one hundred miles.”

  “One hundred!” Tom exclaimed. He looked at the map and tried to do a quick calculation in his head. “You are talking about thousands of miles.”

  “Just under two thousand.”

  “And what kind of land is it?” He knew England had many different kinds of terrain, including hills, valleys, moors, and bogs. Was America like that? Or was it more like the Bathurst Plains in Australia, which were wide and flat as far as the eye could see? He studied the map. “There are no geographical relief markings.”

  Denault gave him an impressed look. “You seem to be proficient at reading maps.”

  “I had to be,” Tom said. “Mining for gold will give a person experience in that kind of thing.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with those details for this project,” Denault said with a patronizing air. “We have a team of engineering and cartography experts who are overseeing the project.”

  If Denault felt he had all the organizational power he needed, that meant he was coming after Tom for something else. And now they were getting to the crux of the issue. Like so many others Tom had met, Denault was only after one thing. “All you want from me is my money.”

  Denault shrugged and raised his hands. “What’s so bad about that? It makes your role that much easier. All you need to do is fund this project, and then enjoy yourself while the earnings pile up. You won’t need to do any of the work.”

  “You say that as if it were a good thing,” Tom said with irritation.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Everyone seems to want to get something for nothing. They think that’s what happened to me. It’s not. I worked hard for that money, and I intend to be very careful in how I spend it.”

  “But it’s not spending,” Denault insisted. “It’s investing.”

  Tom let out a snort of derision. These high-society people were so good at using fancy words to make anything sound better—to put a gloss on it, like shining up a worn boot. Whenever a man started talking that way, it was a signal for Tom to run in the opposite direction. Just now he was seriously considering picking up his hat and walking out without a backward glance. He owed this man nothing, after all. He’d done him a favor just by showing up.

  In the end, it was thoughts of Margaret that kept him from leaving immediately. She was about to be tied to Denault by marriage, and Tom still wanted to find out everything he could about this man. Today he was speaking like many a charlatan he’d seen in Sydney and Melbourne—men who were always coming up with schemes to separate people from their hard-earned money. Was Denault such a man? If so, did Margaret have any inkling of it?

  He could not simply walk away, knowing Margaret was about to place her life in the power of a man who might be disreputable in his business dealings. Of course, he owed nothing to her, and she certainly was not looking for anything from him. This was a solid fact, and yet to Tom it weighed nothing when placed in the balance. He dropped his hat on the table and sat down. “All right, suppose we go over your plans. In detail.”

  Denault grinned and took the other chair. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  *

  Margaret breezed into her study. Hawthorne was standing near the window, observing the traffic below and not looking at all perturbed that she’d kept him waiting for more than a quarter of an hour. She was surprised to see that he was joined by Mr. Clarke, one of the partners in the firm.

  “I apologize for the delay,” Margaret said. “The seamstress had me ridiculously pinned up and I was only just able to free myself. I hope you were able to take some refreshment while you were waiting.”

  “Indeed, Miss Vaughn, that was most kind,” Hawthorne replied.

  But a quick glance showed Margaret that the tea tray was untouched. The two men wore solemn expressions that were unusual even for them, given that an overly grave aspect was a solicitor’s stock in trade. “Is this visit really so serious that it requires two of you?” She spoke lightly, but the expressions on the men’s faces did not waver. Something was definitely amiss. “What’s happened?” she asked warily. “Are Paul’s lawyers still giving you trouble?”

  The two men looked at each other. Mr. Clarke went over to a table and picked up a portfolio filled with papers. Mr. Hawthorne said, “If you would be so kind as to sit down, Miss Vaughn, we have some information we’d like to go over with you.”

  Margaret walked to a large desk and moved aside the correspondence that littered it. She sat down and motioned to two chairs on the opposite side of the desk for the men. “Will this do?” she asked.

  Hawthorne nodded, and Mr. Clarke pulled the papers from the portfolio and set them down in front of her.

  A quick perusal of the first page showed her this was not the marriage settlement. “What is this?”

  Mr. Hawthorne sat down in one of the chairs, facing Margaret. “This
is all the information that we have been able to glean about the Saint Louis and Western Railroad.”

  “The project that Mr. Denault is spearheading in America?” Margaret said in surprise. “I thought you had been over all that already.”

  “Something about the financial statements appeared not quite right.” With a gesture toward Mr. Clarke, who was standing deferentially off to one side, he added, “Clarke suggested we have our own men look into the matter.”

  “And?”

  “The Saint Louis and Western is not in the robust health that Mr. Denault has led everyone to believe. In fact, it is in dire need of a large influx of cash in order to keep it afloat.”

  “Are you quite sure? The company’s prospectus—”

  “It was, I’m afraid, rather too optimistic.”

  Hawthorne’s solemn pronouncement set Margaret’s heart pounding in alarm. “Surely you are mistaken,” she insisted. “Paul has more offers of backing than he can even handle. The current shareholders are practically insisting that he not sell any more, to keep their own profits high. He told me so himself.”

  “I have no doubt that he presented it to you in such a way,” Hawthorne said, ever the diplomat. He did not need to point out that just because Paul said it, it wasn’t necessarily true.

  Margaret thought back to her conversations with Paul on this subject, and she had to admit that he had not been very forthcoming with concrete details. He also had an annoying habit of trying to change the subject whenever she pressed him on it. “What exactly have you found out? Who are your sources?”

  “There is a man newly arrived in London—a Mr. Seton,” Hawthorne said. “He is in the country to transact some business for the First Bank of New York. Mr. Clarke was fortunate enough to make his acquaintance.”