Virginia Henley (22 page)

Alex took a deep breath and knew she must tell him how she felt. It was unfair to let him think she wanted him to romance her. “Hart, you are going too quickly. I just want us to be friends; I have no interest in marriage.”

He looked into her eyes and smiled. “I have no interest in marriage either, my sweet.”

Alex was startled. “Oh” was all she could think of to say, then his lips claimed hers in a lingering good night kiss. On the spot she decided it was lovely. It was not, however, as cataclysmic or heart-stopping as Nick Hatton’s. “Good night, Hart.” She slipped from the carriage and ran into the house before he had a chance to do anything more.

 

At Almack’s, Rupert danced with Olivia Harding three times; not in succession, of course, but it was enough to alert her mother, Annabelle, that the solution to their family’s delicate and pressing problem could be at hand. She made her way to the gaming room and made a furtive sign, beckoning her husband and son.

“Lady Longford’s grandson is showing a marked interest in Olivia,” Annabelle said with great urgency.

“I was the one who dropped a hint to Rupert that Olivia was on the marriage block,” Harry Harding murmured, “and assured him our family would be here tonight.”

His mother bestowed a look of approval upon him and said to Lord Harding, “Rupert inherited his grandfather’s title years ago, and I believe he turned twenty-one a few months back. Do you think we might consider a viscount for Olivia?”

“If we don’t act with alacrity, we will be lucky to get a commoner to offer for the little wanton!”

“Hush, for pity’s sake, my lord. It is only
innocent
girls who can be seduced and brought to the brink of ruin.” Her voice held a note of accusation that plainly said she spoke from experience.

“Hhmmph,” Harding replied, remembering well just how fecund a debutante Annabelle had been. “Better get back down to the ballroom and seize upon any opportunity that presents itself. Viscount Longford would be a gift from the gods.”

Annabelle Harding found Olivia in the supper room, with an attentive Rupert fetching her ratafia.

Rupert bowed gallantly. “May I bring you some refreshment, Lady Harding? A glass of ratafia, perhaps?”

“My lord,” Annabelle addressed him formally, “it does my heart good to see a young man with such fine manners. Might I be so bold as to ask for a small sherry and a slice of seed cake?” When he left to do her bidding, she turned to Olivia. “Do you think you can bring him up to scratch?”

Olivia blushed. “I’m trying, Mamma.”

“Hint that you often take a carriage ride in the park in the afternoons.” Her mother plucked the lace fichu from Olivia’s
décolletage
to display her daughter’s ample cleavage. “If he takes the bait and meets you, you must have him escort you home and invite him in for tea. Just get him into the parlor and your father and I will do the rest.”

In Pamplona, Spain, summer weather spilled over into September, keeping conditions hot, dry, and dusty. Military food supplies were scarce, and Wellington had made it plain that soldiers would have to forage and live off the land. Lieutenant Nicholas Hatton taught every man under his command to hunt for food, then turned a blind eye as Sergeant O’Neil taught them to filch poultry, eggs, and vegetables, as well as fodder for their animals, from the farms in the vicinity. At the same time Hatton and O’Neil taught the men to be ever vigilant for ambush as they scouted the countryside and to be on guard every moment when they patrolled around the walls of the seiged town.

Hatton set his own rules for his own men. Drunkenness was forbidden, and he commanded that they form bonded pairs and foursomes so that they never hunted or patrolled alone. After one of his men caught a bullet in the shoulder from the ramparts of the seiged fortress, he taught them to be one another’s eyes and ears. “You must watch one another’s backs. We all have strengths and weaknesses. The stronger must watch out for the weaker; for all to survive, you must be your brothers’ keepers.” It was a concept Nick had practiced all his life. The men learned the wisdom of this when one of Captain Stanhope’s lieutenants was killed by an enemy bullet from those same ramparts. Stanhope immediately put the dead lieutenant’s men under Hatton’s command, doubling the size of Nick’s troop less than a fortnight after he arrived at Pamplona.

In London, Christopher felt the weight of his responsibilities as Lord Hatton. Invariably, he found that a double whiskey in the morning lightened his spirit. Kit was feeling no pain when John Eaton, the Corkscrew, paid him a visit in Curzon Street.

“I trust when you received the accounting I sent last month, Lord Hatton, that you found it to your complete satisfaction?”

Kit, who had not exactly scrutinized the lists of stocks and investments he had inherited, waved a negligent hand and urged, “Please call me Christopher, just as you used to call my father Henry. You were cousins, after all, John.”

“Not only cousins but good friends too, Christopher. He relied upon me to keep him advised about fail-safe investments when they presented themselves, and I shall do the same for you, my boy. That is the reason I am here today. This war is a golden opportunity for those who seek to make a killing. If you will study the market and choose the right investments, they will return your money a hundredfold. You must make your money work for you.”

“John, my responsibilities as Lord Hatton will make it almost impossible for me to spend my days studying the market. My twin has deserted me for the glory of fighting in the war, which doubles my burden. You are in a far better position to know where to invest my money. I shall trust your judgment implicitly.”

“Rather than take ready cash from the bank, I suggest you take out a loan against Hatton property and sink it into new investments.”

“Who do I see about securing a loan? And what would be a fair amount of interest the bank should charge?” Kit asked vaguely.

“No need to bother with the bank, my boy. I shall be more than pleased to lend you the money—at a lower interest rate than the bank would charge—and put it straight into solid investments. There is the bonus here too of doing your part for the war effort. Winning a war takes more than playing soldier, you know.”

“So I imagine, John. Actually, I’ve had some large expenses lately. My bank account seems rather depleted.”

“No need to worry about money. I shall deposit funds into your account as you need them.” Eaton pulled a paper from his leather case. “Just sign this authorization, giving me power to act on your behalf in all your financial business affairs, and I shall take care of everything, just as I did for your father.”

“I appreciate this very much.”

Eaton held up his hand. “I am merely doing my job. My London office is on Jermyn if you need me for anything, Christopher.”

 

Before matters became serious between himself and Olivia Harding, Rupert called round to see Kit at Curzon Street. “I’ve seen precious little of you the last couple of days. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Actually, I’ve been scouting the galleries and art shops for paintings that appeal to me. Father never had much use for art—thought my hobby unmanly—and it occurred to me that I am now free to indulge my tastes. Spending his money on paintings gives me perverse delight, Rupert. What have you been up to?”

“Don’t laugh, but I’ve decided to enter the marriage market.”

Kit looked horrified. “Has a maggot eaten your brain?”

Rupert could not bring himself to confess to his best friend that he was penniless and must marry for money, especially not now that Kit was Lord Hatton and had just come into his fortune. Therefore, he lied, “I inherited my grandfather’s title, Viscount Longford, but the bulk of his money doesn’t come to me until I am twenty-five. Actually, Kit, I’ve been on a pretty short string lately, and I am sick and tired of being in queer street.”

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me you were temporarily short of funds? You know I have plenty! No need to commit suicide and marry. You haven’t pledged yourself yet, have you?”

“Well, no, that’s the thing, you see. I wanted to be sure you had no proprietary feelings for Olivia Harding before I committed.”

Kit Hatton paused before he replied.
Here is a perfect solution to a problem that is not rightfully mine. Damn, now I will have to do an about-face
. “Rupert, I had no idea you had Olivia in mind. That puts a different complexion on things! I have no proprietary feelings for her, but Nicholas certainly had. Their relationship was becoming so serious, I thought they’d make a match of it. Heiresses as attractive as Olivia don’t cross our path every day, you know. If I were you, old man, I’d snap her up while my twin is off playing soldier.”

“Do you think Olivia was in love with Nick?”

“More than likely she was, Rupert. Tall, dark, dangerously virile men play havoc with women’s hearts, but look on the bright side: If she’s on the rebound, she will fall into your arms.”

“Well, truth to tell, Olivia seems to be quite receptive, but I don’t look forward to presenting myself to Harding. You know what an officious air of authority he has.”

“Rupert, you are Viscount Longford; your grandmother is rich as Croesus. You are one of the most eligible bachelors in
England,
let alone
London
. Harding should grovel at your feet! I would advise you not to appear too eager. I warrant Harding will double her dowry, especially if you are reluctant to wed immediately.”

“But I’m
not
reluctant to wed immediately; that’s what I need.”

“Christ, Rupert, don’t be the carpenter of your own cross! Harding doesn’t know that. Drag your feet, and Olivia’s old man will throw money at you.”

“Thanks, Kit. You do wonders for my self-esteem. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what friends are for, Rupert.”
You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours
.

 

Alex helped Sara to brush and sponge Rupert’s black formal attire and hang it back in his wardrobe. Then she helped herself to a pair of fawn trousers, a russet jacket, and an ecru waistcoat. “I’m going out this afternoon, Sara. Would you come with me?”

Sara eyed the male attire. “Are you wearing those,
sir
?”

Alex laughed. “You have a quick mind; that’s why I like you.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“I intend to explore farther afield, in a poorer section of the city. I want to write an article about a worthy cause, and I need to sketch something that tugs at the heartstrings.”

“That shouldn’t be hard to find; there’s heartbreak ’round every corner in London. We’re so lucky to live in Mayfair.”

Alex pulled on the trousers and tucked in Rupert’s shirt. “Yes, Sara, I know. Where were you born?”

Sara hesitated, then answered vaguely, “North, up past Soho.”

“Shall we go there today?”

“No, miss,” Sara said quickly. “Let’s go along the river. We could visit Whitefriars and perhaps go as far as Blackfriars Bridge. If our time runs short, we can take a boat back.”

“Good idea. We’ll save even more time if we take a hackney cab to Charing Cross and walk from there.”

There was nothing remarkable about the couple who climbed from the cab at the Golden Cross Hotel except that the young man carried a sketchpad under his arm. Alex gazed up at the huge lion atop Northumberland House and fleetingly thought of Nicholas.
Devil take you, Nick Hatton
. They strolled through Hungerford Market, where Alex made a quick sketch of a fish stall that sold everything from cockles and winkles to cods’ heads and black eels, a few of which were still writhing. Finally, the fishy stink drove them out the back entrance by the river and they stood on the Hungerford water-stairs near Warren’s Blacking Factory to catch their breath. The stench from the river, however, propelled them to hurry east toward the Temple.

On Thames Street the odor improved as the air became redolent with malt from a brewery. The people on these streets were raggedy and dirty, especially the children, who ran about barefoot. When a pathetically thin little girl with matted hair begged, “Spare a penny, mister?” Alex put aside her sketchpad to find some coins for the child, but suddenly her attention was diverted by something that really caught at her heart.

A chimney sweep and his assistant were making their way toward the brewery. Both were covered with black soot from head to foot, and Alex was outraged that the apprentice was a little boy who she thought could not possibly be older than five. “How old is that child?” Alex blurted.

“I’d say eight, if it were any of yer bleedin’ business!”

“He’s too small to be eight.”

“ ’Ee’s small so ’ee can squeeze up chimbleys, mate.” The sweep twirled his long-handled brush, which rested on his shoulder, deliberately sending a cloud of black smut toward Alex.