A Lady Most Lovely (8 page)

“That is a beautiful horse,” Margaret said. “I would have thought him too large for racing, but clearly he has speed. We have more than two dozen horses at Moreton Hall, including some Thoroughbreds that we intend to sell for racing. Are you perchance in the market for another racehorse, now that your horse is retired?”

He shook his head. “I have sworn off racing, as well as all forms of gambling.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Have you? It cannot be due to debts, surely?”

“No, or rather—yes. It’s due to a debt I owe the Lord. You see, I no longer feel it is fitting to indulge in professional racing. It is called a ‘gentleman’s sport,’ but I see it as a form of gambling.”

“You needn’t bet on the horses. One might go to the races simply for the love of the sport, mightn’t they?”

She was beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable.
Tom marveled at how many people would say they were Christians, and yet dislike talking about the things of God. He, too, had once been that kind of person. But his experiences in Australia had changed that. God had worked in his life and given him a peace he had not found anywhere else.

He also knew from experience not to press the issue. “Yes, indeed,” he conceded. “And perhaps I will.” He added that mostly to appease her, though he doubted it would happen. “I am interested in breeding horses for other uses. Saddle horses, for example.”

“Will you convert Thoroughbreds to riding, as you did with this horse?”

He looked down fondly at his stallion. It was prancing a little as it walked, signaling that it was itching to run. Their race down the green had not even begun to tap its energy. Only Tom’s careful handling of the reins and using pressure with his legs when needed kept the horse at a measured pace. But Tom never tired of the extra effort required. “Castor is a special case. He and I have come through a lot together. He is a handful, though. I think most gentlemen and ladies would prefer a more docile ride.”

She made a small sound of derision. “Yes, I suppose most people would.”

Clearly, thought Tom, she did not number herself among them.

She paused when they reached a path that led back to the eastern gate near Mayfair. “Thank you, Mr. Poole. It has been a pleasure.”

Tom couldn’t let her go. Not yet. She had seemed unwilling to talk about Denault earlier, but he had to try again. Something about the man worried him. What if he was a fraud? Did Miss Vaughn know what she was
getting into? This might be his only chance to talk to her before it was too late, and he couldn’t let it slip away. “May I escort you to the gate?” he offered.

She looked hesitant, but after a moment she nodded. “How kind.”

They started down the path together. The gate was not far, so Tom wasted no time getting to his concerns. “Tell me, how much do you know about your fiancé’s business affairs?”

She stiffened, her mask of cool reserve dropping back into place. “Why do you ask?”

“Clearly he’s told you about his company’s prospects. But are you sure he’s telling you the whole truth?”

She met his gaze without hesitation, but her answer was evasive. “Do you have reason to doubt him?”

“I have nothing specific as yet, but still I don’t trust him. Do you?” His question was direct and harsh, but there was no time to mince words.

Something flashed across her eyes—doubt? worry?—before her mouth flattened to an angry line. “Mr. Poole, you are speaking of my fiancé! What gives you the right—”

“I know all about men like Denault,” Tom cut in. “They are constantly on the prowl for money. You are a clever woman, Miss Vaughn. I assume you know what you’re doing. But even so I feel compelled to warn you.” He paused deliberately. He’d already insulted her, and what he was about to say would probably hurt her, too. But if she was half as strong as he guessed she was, she could handle it.

“Warn me about
what?
” she demanded.

“You should make absolutely certain he’s not just marrying you for your money.”

“My money!” She laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Yes, the Vaughn fortune is famous from here to the ends of the Empire. But one thing perhaps you may not know, being new to it yourself, is that with wealth comes an army of men to protect it for you—lawyers, bankers, financial advisers. So you may rest assured on that account. Do you think I have no other virtues that might attract a husband?”

“Far from it.” He reached out and took hold of her riding crop, bringing them as close together as he could, forcing her undivided attention. “I should think my admiration of you had been evident from the beginning.”

This disarmed her. Tom could see that. Her bottom lip quivered as her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes searched his for just a fraction too long before she turned away, fighting, it would seem, to regain her composure. “Thank you for the pleasant ride and the conversation, Mr. Poole. There is no need to accompany me further.” With a smart tap of her riding crop she sent her horse into a trot and rode away, her head held high, her back rigid.

Why had nothing he said gotten through to her? Was she really in such command of her destiny? Or was she a prideful fool? The arrogance that had amused him earlier now infuriated him. It served him right, he thought, to have his unsolicited advice met with contempt.

Tom wanted to curse. He wanted to pound a wall or do anything to vent his frustration. Instead he did the only thing he could. He sent his stallion once more down the green, heedless of his speed. Anyone else had better look sharp and stay out of his path.

M
argaret’s agitation heightened with each step of her horse back to her town house. Tom Poole had angered her, but not for his impertinence, as she’d implied. It was the way he seemed to be corroborating what Hawthorne had told her. It simply couldn’t be true. In a few more hours, she’d know for sure.

The day had grown warmer as the afternoon had progressed, and it was now unbearably hot. She was overheated as well as tired and out of sorts. She was eagerly anticipating a long, cool bath and changing into a comfortable tea gown.

The butler met her at the door. “Mr. Denault is here, miss.”

“What? He’s not due here for hours yet.”

She was not ready to talk to him. She needed time to change, to refresh, to prepare.

“I informed him you were out, but he insisted on waiting for you.”

“Well, he can keep on waiting. I need to change first.”
That would buy her a half hour at least, and Paul could just cool his heels during that time. “You may go ahead and bring tea to the parlor for Mr. Denault.”

“Mr. Denault is in the study, miss.”

She paused on the stairs. “The study? You know I have standing instructions to place guests in the upstairs parlor.”

“Yes, ma’am, and I do beg your pardon, but Mr. Denault was quite particular about asking for the study. He insisted it was more comfortable and he wished to pass the time with a good book.”

Margaret was pretty sure the real draw was her best brandy, which she kept in a ready decanter on the sideboard. It was already half past four, not too early in the day for those who indulged in those things. But she was more worried about what else was in that room. She remembered with disturbing clarity that the papers Hawthorne and Clarke had given her were still laid out on the large desk. If Paul should go rooting around in those papers, he would know they suspected him of deceit. Perhaps even now he was dreaming up a lie to rebuff their accusations. She could not allow that to happen. She didn’t want him to be prepared; she wanted to take him utterly by surprise. That was surely the only way to get the truth from him.

Realizing she was holding tightly to the railing, she let go and took a calming breath. “Very well. Have tea brought to the study, then.”

There would be no bath, no time to prepare. No time to clear out the memory of Tom Poole, who was filling her thoughts the way light fills every corner of a room. One thing she was certain about Tom Poole: he was not
a liar. Honesty radiated from him. His rough frankness was worlds apart from Paul’s brand of charm, which was beginning to reveal itself as calculating and sly. Margaret had rebuffed Tom’s warning, but it echoed ominously in her heart as she opened the study door.

Paul was exactly where she had suspected she would find him: seated at her desk. Infuriatingly, he had his feet propped up on it as he perused several papers in his hand. She could tell at a glance it was the dossier Mr. Hawthorne had given her.

Paul looked up. Seeing her, he tossed the papers onto the desk.

She spoke without preamble. “Those are my private papers.” She unpinned her hat and removed it, tossing it and her gloves onto a chair. That provided some relief from the heat, as the breeze from the open window cooled the damp hair on the back of her neck.

Unperturbed, Paul rose. “Hello, darling.” He spoke as if she had just wished him a pleasant greeting. He sauntered over and gently grasped one of her hands. His own hand was cool. He was always cool, she reflected as he placed a soft, lingering kiss on her cheek. Normally such an action would give her pleasure, but at the moment it produced a far different sensation—revulsion, almost.

She drew back. “You had no right to read my private papers.”

“No right?” He spoke gently, but his blue eyes were hard and unyielding. “I am your fiancé. Soon I’ll be your husband. I’d say that gives me every right.”

“We are not married yet,” she countered, “and this is still my home. What are you doing here so early?”

“Have I caught you at a bad time? How inconsiderate of me. I assumed you’d be home attending to the details of our wedding like a proper bride-to-be, not out taking a pleasure jaunt in Hyde Park.”

Margaret caught her breath. He was attempting to chastise
her!
For weeks she’d endured the way he patronized and belittled her. She’d stifled her objections out of desperation, willing to do anything to make this marriage happen. But she refused to tolerate it anymore. “I asked why you were reading my papers, Paul.”

“And I believe I gave you an answer.” He attempted to brush back a strand of hair from her face, but sweat had plastered it to her forehead. “What a sight you are. Why don’t you go and change? I’ll wait.”

She swatted his hand away. “It’s time we laid everything out on the table, don’t you think? You told me your business had made a hefty profit in America. You’ve let it be understood both here and abroad that you are rich.”

His cajoling smile evaporated. “And that cursed Hawthorne has gone and proven otherwise, has he?” In two strides Paul returned to the desk. With an angry swipe he sent the papers tumbling to the carpet. “Curse the man for putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Stop it!” She advanced on him. “You blame someone else because you were caught in a lie, but I’m glad for those men. I’m grateful I have lawyers who will ferret out—”

“Lawyers?” he cut in. “Spies, you mean. They’re too old for foreign intrigues, so they take satisfaction in ruining their own countrymen. They are stirring up things that ought to have been left alone.”

“It’s true then, isn’t it?” She grabbed a handful of papers from the floor and waved them in his face. “How could you woo me under such false pretenses? How could you lead me on?”

He pushed her hands away, his face ugly with fury. He looked ready to strike her. Margaret drew back, preparing to defend herself. For several tense heartbeats, she could almost see his mind at work, calculating his next move. Then, slowly and deliberately, he relaxed his clenched fists. “Let’s stop and consider this calmly,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “In the end, what difference does it make? We belong together, and you are rich enough for us both, are you not?”

Margaret stared at him aghast. “You have not the slightest bit of conscience, do you?”

The anger flashed again, and again she saw him carefully suppress it. “Let me tell you something,” Paul said fiercely. “It is an age-old fact that in this world in order to make money you have to
have
money. It’s the constant conundrum. The rich get richer, and the poor haven’t got a chance. You will not regret marrying me. In time I can increase your wealth beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Time,” said Margaret coldly, “is something we do not have.”

“But we have your money.”

She broke free and threw her hands in the air. “I have no money!” She drew herself up, staring right back into his stunned expression. “My father left debts. Serious debts. He managed to gamble away or otherwise squander nearly everything.”

“But your lands are extensive. The rents, the income…”

“—have been steadily decreasing. The tenants are
moving away to the cities, where they can find better-paying jobs. It seems that slaving away in the Manchester factories is more appealing than raising crops.”

“I can’t believe you lied to me!” Paul actually had the effrontery to look wounded.

“You lied to
me!
” she shot back. “I believe there is a saying about the pot calling the kettle black.”