A Lady Most Lovely Read online

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, but said nothing. This is it, Tom thought. Now we are going to get honest. He allowed the silence to stretch, waiting for her answer.

  When she spoke, every word was slow and strained. “Ten thousand pounds,” she said quietly.

  She met his gaze, watching for his shocked expression, which Tom had no doubt he was supplying. This was beyond anything he’d imagined. “Ten thousand?” he asked incredulously. “How could you possibly have amassed so much debt?”

  “The debt is not mine!” she exclaimed. “My father left me saddled with twenty thousand pounds of debt when he died.” She lifted her head proudly. “I have already managed to pay off half of it.”

  Tom shook his head, still unable to believe what he was hearing. “Everyone believes you are rich. How have you managed to hide this?”

  “I don’t wish to discuss it,” she said curtly. She strode over to the door and reached for the handle. “I can see you already regret your rash offer, and so I will bid you good day.” Her words sounded fearless, but Tom saw that her hand was trembling.

  He went to the door and leaned against it. She pulled her hand away and took a few steps back to avoid making contact with him.

  “I regret nothing,” Tom told her.

  It was true—despite the fact that ten thousand pounds represented a good portion of the gold he’d brought to England. Much of his money was still in Australia, providing the working capital Sullivan needed for the business. Tom could not be flippant about parting with such a large sum. But neither would he change his answer. “I will pay this debt for you.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. “Why would you do this? What could you possibly expect to gain by it?”

  “For God’s sake!” Tom bellowed, causing her to flinch. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to keep you away from the courts, out of prison, and safeguard your reputation. I’m guessing I’m the only hope you have right now. Why won’t you admit it?”

  His words shook her. Tom could see it in her stricken face, in the way she crossed her arms, hugging herself as if trying to shore up her strength. He could see pride battling with fear, trying to prevent her from reaching out for this lifeline.

  He had a sudden recollection of a mournful voice he’d thought he’d heard on the night of that terrible gale, as the winds were howling and the passengers were rushing to and fro screaming and the ship was breaking apart. “Come over into Macedonia and help us,” the voice had said. He’d known it was from the Bible, the same plea that Saint Paul had once received in a vision. Later, when he’d had time to reflect on it, Tom thought the Lord was trying to send him a message about Lizzie. Now he realized, with a sharp jolt of his heart, that the muted and throaty voice he’d heard sounded startlingly like Margaret’s. Do it, Margaret, he urged silently as he watched her. Let me help you.

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Very well,” she said shakily. “I will accept your offer. And I will offer collateral.”

  Tom knew that last part was purely due to the remnants of her pride, but he would not fault her for it. She had been pressed to give up so much of it already. Tom knew as well as anyone that change was very hard indeed—even if it was for the better. The important thing was she had said yes. He felt a burden lift—as though he’d been the one receiving aid rather than extending it. “Very well.”

  “I have a stable of fine racehorses. In another year they will be ready to sell. That will go a long way toward repaying the loan.”

  He shook his head. “Horses are not good collateral. Not long term. Too many things could happen to them.” Happy as he was to be helping her, he sensed she was still withholding something. “That can’t be what you offered Mortimer.”

  “That’s none of your concern!” she burst out. No, she had not lost all her defiance, Tom thought wryly.

  “It is most definitely my concern,” he insisted. “If I am to help you, you must be honest with me.” She stared at him mutely, so he folded his arms and leaned against the door. Surprising, really, what a patient man he could be at times. “Someone outside is pacing rather restlessly in the hallway,” he observed. “Jake, probably. But he and Mortimer can wait for as long as it takes for us to reach an agreement.”

  He almost felt guilty bringing up the specter of Mortimer and his threats. But it paid off. Margaret threw a brief, worried glance at the door and finally answered his question. “I have been receiving offers from the railway. They want to run a direct line to Lincoln, and they need a good piece of my eastern boundary to do it. But I have no intentions of selling that land—not to anyone. Not under any circumstances.”

  “And yet you put it at risk with Mortimer.”

  “I was desperate!” she shot back. “And besides, it was only temporary. Only until—” She bit back her words and turned away.

  “Only until your marriage,” Tom supplied.

  Her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, but she did not answer.

  “I admire your desire to keep your land,” Tom told her. “You had to risk it in order to save it. I understand that. You had to make difficult and courageous decisions. As you do now.”

  He could see the strain of weeks and months—perhaps even years—written in her expression. “What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice plaintive.

  What did he want? At the moment, Tom wanted nothing more than just to stand here and look at her. Even now, in the midst of her distress, she was perfectly beautiful. She was fiery and determined and brave.

  “I want to marry you,” he blurted out.

  The words slipped out of their own volition—more proof that Tom was still dangerously reckless. Margaret’s appeal was undeniable. But was marriage truly what he wanted? His own life was so unsettled. He was striving to be a better man, but he still had plenty of shortcomings. By marrying now he would only subject a wife to every one of them.

  Margaret’s mouth actually fell open in surprise. Quickly she closed it. Her expression became absolute stone. She began to scrutinize him. As her gaze traveled from his face all the way down to his boots, Tom realized he was still damp and disheveled from his morning’s activities. He also noted with chagrin that dried mud was flaking off his boots and onto the thick Persian carpet. More consequences of his hasty actions.

  “Perhaps you think you might buy my affections?” Margaret said at last. “You think I’d be so grateful to you for coming to my rescue? Is that how they do things in Australia? Do men buy their wives there?”

  “They don’t have to,” Tom said evenly. He was not about to be put on the defensive, no matter how untoward his proposal had been. “They go willingly.”

  “I’ll have you know that I no longer wish to get married. Not to anyone. I had a close call, and thank God I escaped.” She nodded her head toward the door. “Good day, sir.”

  He crossed his arms, standing his ground. “And what will you do if I walk out? Will you sell your land?”

  She faced him, just as bold, just as decisive. “I will do whatever it takes to survive.”

  She was putting up a good front, but Tom could see through it now. He took a step back, as if in retreat, testing her reaction. She paled a little, and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, but she did not try to stop him.

  Tom knew enough about bargaining to recognize he’d gotten as far with her today as he was going to. However, he was not going to leave her at the mercy of men like Mortimer, despite her brave show. “All right, here’s what I propose we do. I will offer you the loan. And I will accept your horses as collateral.”

  Her eyes closed briefly, and he knew she was doing all she could to hide her relief. When she opened them again, her expression became stern and businesslike, erasing the vulnerability he’d seen earlier.

  “Excellent.” She crossed the room to her desk, sat down, and arranged some paper. “I’m sure we can come to terms regarding repayment.”

  Heaven help him. Margaret was still acting as though she were the one i
n charge. That he would not allow. Not after what he had done for her today. She was affecting him in ways he did not fully understand, ways she could not even be aware that she was doing. He was not going to simply give her the money and walk away. As her hand reached out to dip pen in ink, Tom took hold of her wrist to stop it. “I will accept your terms. But I have one more to add.”

  He could feel her pulse racing underneath his fingers, belying the illusion of calm that she always stood behind like a shield. Her gaze met his. “And that would be…?”

  And the Fates bedevil him if Tom couldn’t keep a smile from coming to his lips. “You must dine with me tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 9

  Margaret stood at the window, watching as Tom Poole left in the carriage with Mortimer. She saw with no small measure of satisfaction that since the carriage could only accommodate two passengers, Mortimer’s appalling henchman was forced to find his own way back to wherever it was he’d come from. From hell, most probably.

  Finding her legs threatening to collapse, she sank down on a nearby chair. She had come terrifyingly close to complete and utter disaster. What would have happened if Tom hadn’t arrived? It was too terrible to even contemplate. She had always been a woman of strong constitution, but at the moment she didn’t even have enough strength to reach for the bell. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face, which was beaded with perspiration. “Bessie!” she called out. “Are you there?”

  She heard the maid’s swift steps coming up the hall. After taking one look at Margaret, she rushed to her side. “Are you ill, miss?” she said in alarm. “Shall I call a doctor?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Margaret tried to sound composed, but her voice was weak.

  Bessie was wringing her hands. “I’m sorry those men upset you, miss. Truly, I did my best to keep them out, but—”

  “I know you did. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  But Bessie still seemed determined to clear herself. “Those men—the first two, I mean—they forced their way in. And quite rudely, too. The shoved me aside! But Mr. Poole, he was a perfect gentleman. He told me…” She looked abashed at Margaret. “He told me he was here to help you.”

  Margaret sighed. “It’s all right, Bessie. You did right to admit Mr. Poole.”

  Bessie’s face lit up. “Did I? Was he able to help you?”

  There was far too much impertinence in that question, but Margaret could hardly blame her. Bessie was concerned about the state of the household, and rightly so. Despite all Margaret had done to hide her financial distress, the servants must have some inkling of it. They’d seen her carefully trimming the staff. No doubt others worried they could be next—even though in every case Margaret had worked hard to find new positions for those she’d had to let go. And they were only too well aware of the hundred other ways she’d cut the household expenditures. But she doubted they knew the full extent to which she’d been pushed by her circumstances, and she was determined to keep it that way. Tom Poole may have pulled her back from the brink, but she did not need her maid to know that. “Mr. Poole was able to render me some good service today,” Margaret said, doing her best to answer in a nonchalant way. She stood up, grateful the strength had returned to her legs. “Now, Bessie, the morning is far gone. Will you go down and ask the cook to serve luncheon?”

  Food was the last thing Margaret cared to face right now, but it was good to keep the servants at their tasks. It kept them from asking too many questions. Her request also seemed to reassure Bessie that things were returning to normal. She brightened. “Right away, miss.” With a quick curtsy, she left the room.

  Margaret walked over to the desk, still trying to make some sense out of Tom Poole’s sudden appearance and the way he had so swiftly become vital to her survival. It had begun the moment he’d sparred with her at the engagement party, all but daring her not to bend to her fiancé’s whims. Then there had been that chance meeting in the park—the exhilarating race, the infuriating questions. Accusations about Paul, which turned out to be so timely and true. And how was it that he had burst into her house at the very moment when Mortimer was threatening the worst? It was incomprehensible. And yet, if he hadn’t been there…

  She refused to dwell on it. Deliberately she gathered up everything pertaining to the wedding preparations and tucked them away in a drawer. She sifted through a few of the papers her lawyers had brought over, but found there was nothing that couldn’t wait another day.

  Finally, she picked up the agreement that she had signed with Tom Poole. He was going to deliver ten thousand pounds to Mortimer in exchange for collateral of the horses. They were not worth nearly that much, but he’d accepted them, sight unseen. Was he a fool? Or was she? Nervously, she perused the last line, which he’d insisted upon: “In failure of providing the money within the time agreed upon, the contract will be renegotiated to the satisfaction of the undersigned.” She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that one bit.

  What the note did not contain was the verbal commitment Tom had required from her before signing it. Tom told her his sister would send over a dinner invitation, and Margaret had agreed to accept it. She was surprised at the trepidation this gave her. It was only dinner, after all. Surely he was not trying to woo her. He would not be renewing his offer of marriage. Margaret was sure of this; the expression on his face right after he proposed spoke plainly enough. He didn’t want to be married any more than she did. She ought to be relieved about this—not feeling something so foolish as disappointment.

  It’s just one evening, she told herself. Nothing more. She went upstairs to freshen up before luncheon. She poured water into a basin and splashed it onto her face, allowing its coolness to rejuvenate her thoughts as she considered what she should do next. Without a doubt, the most important thing was to return to Lincolnshire and retrench. Every day she remained here, the town house bled away money she didn’t have. The season was nearly over anyway, and with her wedding canceled Margaret was painfully aware that she no longer had any real reason to be in London.

  Margaret went to the window and looked out over the little park. A refreshing breeze played along her damp face as she considered the man who lived on the other side of that square. She could not think what to make of him. Tom Poole did not fit into any mold. His accent and certain aspects of his conduct betrayed his working-class origins, but he was neither coarse nor ignorant. Far from it. He was a clever man who could walk into unknown surroundings and quickly grasp what was expected of him. More troubling, perhaps, was how swiftly he had penetrated her defenses and laid bare her weaknesses.

  Margaret turned from the window. She could not afford to spend time reflecting on Tom Poole or anyone else. Their arrangement had made him a temporary benefactor of sorts. But he would never be anything more. She would never give up her self-reliance.

  It was with a bittersweet sense of pride that she went to the dining room to take her soup and cold meat alone. Perhaps when she was out of debt she might be able to take a bigger house in Belgravia and host her own soirees. But always, always, she would be in control, living within her means. Any other path was for those who were weak or foolish. And she, Margaret thought with grim satisfaction, was neither. She was going to be free from the manacle of her debts and never again be beholden to any man. Certainly not the tall, persuasive, and unsettling stranger from Australia.

  *

  Tom and Mortimer walked out of the Bank of London and onto the busy sidewalk. The hansom was still there, the cabbie chatting with another driver as they waited for their fares to conclude their business.

  “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Mortimer said, shaking Tom’s hand. Before he let go, he added, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Tom tried to give him a wry smile, which was probably more of a grimace. “What do you care?”

  Mortimer nodded in agreement. “Indeed.” He briefly patted his coat pocket, in which was the deed of transfer
between Tom’s account and his own. “I trust, sir, that if you are ever in need of funds, you will feel free to contact me.”

  “So you can loan my money back to me with interest? I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Mortimer’s eyes showed a hint of amusement. He entered the carriage. “Shall I drop you somewhere?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Tom watched as the cab lurched into the traffic and was soon lost in the busy thoroughfare. Then he turned and began to walk back toward Mayfair. He walked slowly, barely taking heed of the bustle around him. Mortimer’s question still echoed in his ears. Of course, the man had only asked it after the money had been safely and irrevocably transferred. Mortimer was not the sort to allow any scruples to interfere with a profitable transaction.

  Even though he had just parted with an alarming sum of money, Tom had no regrets. As he reflected on the morning’s events, a new thought struck him. If the rain hadn’t caused him to leave Hyde Park early, he’d never have seen the moneylenders forcing their way into Margaret’s house. He’d never have known there was a serious problem at number 15. Had that somehow been the work of the Lord? Tom was too new a Christian to know for sure. And yet, it was a fact that his prayer had been immediately followed by the rain. Perhaps the Lord worked in odd ways indeed. Did that also mean he had some plan for Margaret? If so, Tom thought wryly, the Lord was going to have to work mighty hard to get that woman’s attention.

  “Poole!”

  The voice stopped Tom in midstep. He turned to see Denault standing at the door of a tavern. Fighting the urge to pound the man senseless for what he’d done to Margaret, he stood stock-still and gave Denault a cold glare. “What do you want?”

  He could tell from Denault’s demeanor that his hostility hadn’t gone unnoticed. But Denault must have decided to ignore it. He motioned toward the tavern. “I was hoping you’d have time for a drink.”