A Lady Most Lovely Page 5

  Hawthorne said this last part with a tiny smile of approval, and Margaret was sure that meeting Mr. Seton had not been mere coincidence. Hawthorne’s network of contacts in the city was extensive. Another legacy of his days as a spy.

  “The Bank of New York has organized funding for a number of railway projects in America,” Mr. Clarke explained. “Mr. Seton is quite knowledgeable in this area. His bank has been investigating complaints that the Saint Louis and Western is not being honest with its shareholders. There is a possibility that money taken from new investors is merely used to pay ‘dividends’ to the prior investors, giving them a false sense that the company is prospering.”

  “But what is the point of that?” Margaret asked, confused. “How can such a company continue to operate?”

  “It can go on like that indefinitely,” Mr. Clarke told her. “That is, until the influx of money runs dry. Mr. Seton is of the opinion that Mr. Denault has stolen or spent most of the capital and needs immediate cash to stave off the threat of being discovered. Mind you, we are making no accusations at this point.”

  “Could there possibly be a mistake?” Margaret asked. “Could Mr. Seton’s information be incorrect?”

  Clarke spread his hands in the universal gesture of uncertainty. “We are leaving open that possibility, for now.”

  “However, I feel I should tell you,” Hawthorne added, “that Mr. Denault’s solicitors have been asking very particular questions about the state of ready cash in your estate.”

  “But that’s absurd!” Margaret burst out. “We can’t both be marrying each other for money!” The idea sent terror through her.

  “I’m afraid we must consider the possibility,” Hawthorne said solemnly.

  Margaret sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, pushing back the tears that threatened to come. Her finely laid plans were unraveling, and it took every ounce of will to fight the panic. But now was not the time to show weakness. She would find a way out of this. How appropriate that Mr. Hawthorne had once been a spy, she thought. This meeting was beginning to feel exactly like a council of war. She took a deep breath, straightened in her chair, and met the gaze of the two men who were now studying her with concern. “All right, gentlemen, I assume you have already considered our options. What do you propose we should do?”

  Thirty minutes later, the two men took their leave. Margaret sat down at her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. She stabbed, rather than dipped, her pen into the inkstand. Her initial shock had been completely overtaken by cold fury. How dare he lead her on, giving her such fine stories and acting as though he were in love—or at least, in lust—when all he wanted, like every other potential suitor in London, was her money? It was maddening. And, if she dared admit it, embarrassing. She’d been taken in like a fool. This had been the most galling blow to her pride.

  She looked down at the paper.

  Dear Paul…

  Dear? How laughable the term seemed to her now. She threw the paper into the fire, allowing her emotions to seethe and crackle like the parchment. Paul would be coming over this evening, and there was no point in asking him to come earlier. She would take the afternoon to compose herself. For as long as she could remember, she had faced obstacles with calm and control. Today would be no different. She would confront him face-to-face, and she would wrangle the truth out of him.

  She looked over at the papers she had set aside earlier. Most of them involved plans for the wedding, but would it even take place? If her lawyers were correct and Paul had no ready cash—or worse, had been stealing money from others—what would she do? Her creditors were pressing in on her, becoming more insistent, threatening exposure. Even if she were able to disengage herself from Paul without a scandal, how was she to come up with the money she needed? She could not find another rich man to marry in so short a space of time. The idea was ludicrous.

  She rose and began to pace the room, clenching her hands so tightly that her fingernails began to dig into her palms. She welcomed the pain—anything to clear her head, to keep her wits about her.

  Perhaps there really was a mistake, she thought desperately. Even her excellent lawyers were not infallible. They had thought this Mr. Seton was credible, but who could be sure? Paul might be able to prove that his financial status was exactly as he had led her to believe. Tonight she would tell him exactly where she stood. If he was as rich as he claimed to be, surely he would not balk at marrying her anyway. In the meantime, she could not—would not—allow herself to dwell on the possibility of anything else.

  Margaret threw open the study door and strode briskly toward the stairs. As she passed the footman, she said, “Send word to the groom to saddle my horse. I’m going riding.”

  The footman left to discharge his errand, and Margaret took the stairs to her room. There she found her maid Bessie straightening the wardrobe. “My riding costume, if you please,” Margaret ordered. Bessie was surprised by this request, but she quickly helped Margaret change.

  As Bessie buttoned up the back of the comfortable blue riding habit, Margaret began to feel a certain sense of calm returning to her. She had been nearly a week without riding, too caught up in all the details of wedding planning and the multitude of other business pressing down on her. She needed open space and fresh air.

  The groom stood ready with the horse at the base of the town house steps. “Will you be needing an escort, miss?” he asked as he helped her to mount.

  “No.” With a light touch of her riding crop she set the horse moving. “I’m going alone.”

  Chapter 5

  It felt good to escape the house. As long as she was riding her favorite mare on a lovely late summer day in Hyde Park, it was easy to act and feel as though all were right with the world. As if it were not all threatening to crumble around her.

  Although the season was nearing its end, plenty of people were still in town. Today most were on foot or in finely appointed carriages, so Margaret had ample room on the green stretch of grass reserved for those on horseback. She rode at an easy pace, savoring the birdsong and the sunshine, which was a balm to her troubled soul.

  Farther ahead, another rider caught her eye. She realized with an odd jolt that it was Tom Poole. He was riding a jet-black Thoroughbred—probably the one that had survived the shipwreck with him. She allowed her gaze to linger on him, admiring the way he cantered his horse across the green with confident ease.

  “Margaret, how lovely to see you.” A man’s voice startled her from her thoughts. She’d been so busy staring at Tom Poole that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  She turned, unpleasantly surprised to find herself looking at her cousin, Richard Spencer. He’d given her more than enough cause to continue the forty-year rift that existed between their two branches of the family, and his departure for America two years ago had been welcome news.

  She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly a decade, and she saw in an instant that he hadn’t aged well. He had always been a large man, bulky in an athletic kind of way and tall enough to successfully carry his extra weight. He must have been indulging in too much food and drink in the years since their last meeting; his once muscular frame now strained the seams of his riding coat. Drops of sweat trickled down his face and he was breathing heavily, a probable sign he was no longer used to vigorous exercise. He would have been better off in a carriage instead of on horseback.

  “Richard! I didn’t know you were back in the country.” She didn’t bother to hide the displeasure from her voice.

  “Just got back a week ago,” he said brightly, not put off by her cold reception. “How fortunate that we should meet.”

  “Is it?” She eyed him warily.

  He shook his head like a disapproving parent. “Come now. Don’t you think we should lay aside our grievances? Extend the olive branch, and all that?”

  “Are you willing to lay aside your grievances?” she challenged. To her mind, that meant he would no longer claim he should have inherited Moreton Hall inst
ead of her. She thought that was as likely as the sun rising in the west tomorrow.

  But he merely shrugged and said, “Let us not speak of unpleasant things just now. I must offer you my hearty felicitations. I hear you are getting married soon.”

  If he was angling for an invitation, he was out of luck. He was the last person she’d want at the wedding. Assuming it even took place. Today’s meeting with Hawthorne had left her with a queasy uncertainty on that subject.

  Richard continued to watch her with that aggravating, self-satisfied smirk that she remembered too well. Why should he look pleased at the news of her marriage? It would mean the possibility of a male heir, and any claims he would want to lay against Moreton Hall would be extinguished for good.

  She’d come to the park to think, to clear her head. The very last thing she needed was to have Richard Spencer insinuating himself back into her life. “I thank you for your felicitations,” she said stiffly, adding pointedly, “please, don’t let me keep you.”

  Richard laughed, as though she’d told him a pleasant joke instead of giving him the brush-off. “Yes, I’m sure you have a lot to do, what with planning your trousseau, or writing notices to the Times, or whatever it is ladies do before a wedding.” He lifted his hat. “Until the next time, then.”

  He turned his horse around, leaving the green and taking the road toward the park gates. It was a pleasure to see the back of him, but she did not stare after him long. She urged her horse into a canter, wanting only to ride far and fast, as though she could gain a distance from her troubles. It wasn’t until she saw Tom Poole up ahead that she realized she’d been looking for him.

  He had stopped to rest in the shade of a tree, but when he saw her, he immediately began riding in her direction. She slowed to a halt and waited for him to reach her.

  What a treat it was to watch a man who could ride well—especially after the revolting spectacle Richard had made. Both men were tall, but the comparison ended there. Tom was all lean muscle, and his trim riding clothes accentuated his broad shoulders and long, powerful legs. He moved smoothly with the animal’s rhythm, seated with as much ease as a man relaxing in his favorite chair. Her admiration swelled as he brought the horse effortlessly to a neat stop a few feet away. He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Vaughn.”

  “Hello, Mr. Poole.”

  Something in his eyes glinted, and his mouth widened in a tiny, almost sardonic smile. Was he remembering the last time they’d met, when she’d greeted him as “Just Tom”? Curious that she should think of that. And yet it seemed that every minute of that meeting was engraved in her memory.

  Embarrassed to realize she was staring at him, she urged her horse to a walk. Suddenly she was aware of how warm the day had become. It felt good to get a breeze from movement, however slight. Immediately Tom’s horse fell into step beside hers. She had heard the stallion had a bad temperament, yet Tom controlled it with minimal outward signs of direction. There were few men she knew who had that kind of impressive rapport with their mounts. She was about to say something to that effect, but Tom spoke first, sending her thoughts in a completely different direction. “I just came from a meeting with your fiancé,” he said.

  The words were simple, but they held a chill that reawakened Margaret’s worries. “Oh?” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. “So, what do you think? Paul tells me there are many investors who are eager to join his venture.”

  “Yes, everyone’s jumping at the chance. Act now, or the opportunity will be lost.” He spoke in a tone so dry it bordered on sarcasm. “However, I have learned that it’s precisely those times when I feel rushed to do something that I must stop, step back, and assess the situation carefully. So I told him I would be happy to consider it, but I could make no commitment at the present time.”

  “I see,” Margaret said. She did not know which direction this conversation was taking, but she was sure that wherever it led would be dangerous territory. She could not talk about Paul with anyone right now. Not until she had confronted him personally and gotten to the bottom of the allegations that Hawthorne had raised against him. With forced brightness she said, “Mr. Poole, I came out here to do some riding.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” He looked down as if to reassure himself that he was indeed on horseback.

  “I mean some real riding. I assume that superb beast knows how to do more than walk slowly enough for an old lady to keep up?”

  He gave her an amused grin. “I thought the purpose of coming to Rotten Row was simply to see and be seen.”

  “Well, then, let’s show them something.”

  What had gotten into her? She had no idea. The words were out of her mouth before she could think—a truly unusual thing for her.

  He looked down the green. “To that elm tree, then.”

  She followed his gaze to a line of a dozen or more trees. All elms. “Which elm tree?”

  But her words were lost in the pounding of hoofbeats as he raced away. So it was going to be like that with “Just Tom,” was it? With a surge of excitement that temporarily eased the troubles weighing on her, she sent her mare into a gallop and chased after him.

  *

  What was he doing? He shouldn’t be racing, and certainly not out here. He’d picked a straight and clear path, but anyone could wander into the way unexpectedly. He’d seen that on his previous rides here—including yesterday, when he’d nearly run down a careless slip of a man who was busy preening for two ladies in a passing carriage.

  He listened for the sound of her horse behind him. She was there all right; she’d caught up to him with no trouble. He had not let out his horse to full speed, but he was going fast. Miss Vaughn must be a good horsewoman. That she was keeping up with him while riding sidesaddle raised his admiration even more. He thought it a stupidly dangerous custom, but she seemed to have mastered it. Even so, he slowed his pace. He did not want to endanger her. If the horse should stumble…

  She passed him, her face glowing with excitement, the silk scarf from her hat flying in the breeze.

  What spirit the woman had! He had not been lying when he said he’d learned the hard way not to rush into anything. Yet she made him want to throw all caution to the wind.

  He was glad she had passed him. Now he could watch her as she raced down the green. Her form showed years of real practice, not just the minimal lessons required of any society miss. She must love riding as much as he did. He began to have visions of the two of them riding alone together in an open field, with Margaret in a much simpler dress, not the voluminous riding habit she was wearing now. Her hat would be gone, and her long brown hair would tumble down, accentuating the luscious curves of her hips—

  Dear Lord, not only was he racing, but also he was now having unhealthy thoughts about another man’s intended bride. She came to a stop near one of the elms, then turned to face him.

  Still berating himself, he brought his horse to a halt next to hers.

  Her face was flushed and her green eyes flashed like the glimmer of the hot sun on the Indian Ocean. “Is this the elm tree you were talking about?”

  “Yes,” he said, his heart beating wildly. “I reckon it was.”

  She smiled triumphantly. “I seem to have won this race. What a shame we had not placed a wager.”

  “I think we got that attention you were after.” Tom indicated the pedestrian path, where a group of people had gathered to watch their gallop across the green. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Why should it?” She gave a brief toss of her head. “I attract attention wherever I go.”

  “I can see that,” Tom returned with amusement. He could not help but admire her evident pride, which he thought stemmed from her justifiable self-confidence, and not mere vanity.

  They both began to move again as if by one consent, keeping to a walk, allowing their horses to cool down properly.

  “The crowd is thinning out,” she observed. “No doubt they are disappointed neit
her of us fell off or did something else equally horrifying. They will have to find other, more fascinating topics to fill their time.”

  Her mockery displayed the hard edge Tom had seen on the night they met. He wondered if she truly was irked at the ways of society, or whether it was mere affectation. Plenty of people spoke as if they abhorred the rules of upper-class living, and yet seemed perfectly happy to abide by them.

  “In any case,” Margaret continued, “there is nothing untoward in having a relaxing ride in Hyde Park.”

  Relaxing? Tom was still breathing heavily, his shirt lined with sweat. Checking his stallion’s speed had been no easy task. The horses, too, glistened from their exertions. Miss Vaughn’s face, though flushed, was alight with pleasure. “I can see you enjoy riding,” he said truthfully, and added without thinking, “you have an excellent seat.”

  She arched one delicate eyebrow, and he realized with dismay that his remark may have been taken as having a double meaning. “I hope that is the correct term,” he said apologetically. “I only meant to say you ride well.”

  “Thank you.” She patted her horse’s neck. “I do indeed ride often. I’ve adored it ever since I was a child, and it’s a mainstay for me at Moreton Hall—that’s my home in Lincolnshire.”

  “Lincolnshire—that’s to the north, isn’t it?”

  “Have you never been?”

  He shook his head. “Never left London. Except for Australia.”

  She laughed. “Two very different places.”

  Tom loved her laugh, which was light and smooth, effortlessly elegant, just as she was. “I want to see more of England, now that I have time and the means to do so. Should I begin with Lincolnshire? I assume there is much to recommend it?”

  “Oh, yes. Wide-open spaces, not just a small patch of green hemmed in by buildings and people.” She indicated the park around them. “My favorite place is a path that runs along a stream. It’s really more of a narrow river, quite deep and rushing over large boulders. The wind rustling through the leafy trees overhead is like nature’s poetry.” She stopped herself with another smooth laugh. “I seem to have gotten carried away with my description. I must be boring you.”