Reforming Harriet Read online

He did not deny it. Perhaps Horace was beginning to unbend, she thought. That would be all to the good. Celestial studied him with new interest — and no small amount of hope.

  “You know, Horace,” she said, taking a step toward him, “I would not object to hearing your views.”

  He eyed her blankly. “Views?”

  Celestial gave a low laugh. “Why, yes. On what might make Lady Harriet — or any woman, for that matter — happy. ”

  The butler eyed her in alarm. He turned on his heel and retreated through the dining room door.

  Alone in the darkened dining room, Celestial stared after him and emitted a long-suffering sigh.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “So you see, Stevens, I have enough evidence to warrant a thorough investigation.” Elias towered over Freddy’s solicitor, in whose presence two days ago he had watched Lady Harriet sign her pledge to terminate their betrothal by the Season’s end.

  Winston Stevens removed his spectacles and cleaned them carefully and deliberately. But Elias had seen trapped men before, and this one bore all the signs. His pupils were dilated, and a thin film of sweat covered his brow. His hands trembled slightly as he rubbed the lenses, buying time.

  As well he might. Westwood Imports was a valuable commodity. For years Elias’s friends and associates had besieged him to sell them stock, but he preferred to keep the business in his control. Only he and Freddy held shares. The shares Stevens had sold for Lady Harriet would have been snapped up, and at a hefty price. Yet the mill repairs, sheep, cows, and other improvements she had made amounted to only a few thousand pounds. Stevens must have pocketed the difference, and perhaps even sold other shares without her knowledge.

  “Since I have made you a rich man, however inadvertently, it seems only fitting that I be the one to remedy that fact,” Elias continued.

  Stevens put his spectacles on his nose. “You have no proof.”

  “Proof,” Elias echoed in a musing tone. “Perhaps you are right. I will get an accounting from Lady Harriet as to the precise sums she received from you.”

  He walked around the edge of the man’s desk. “And since I have a very good notion as to who in London would have leapt at the chance to buy into Westwood Imports, it will be a simple matter to track down the purchasers and ask them to produce the bills of sale. Any discrepancy between the sums Lady Harriet received and their purchase price will produce a trail that leads directly to you, Stevens. The proof, you see, can be had.”

  Stevens was no idiot. He knew when he was beaten. A sickly pallor swept his features.

  “I did not intend to hurt Lady Harriet,” he began, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. The little weasel looked ready to crawl under the desk, Elias thought.

  “Lady Harriet will not press charges — provided you cooperate.” Elias did not mention that his betrothed did not know he had discovered Stevens’s nefarious scheme. Nor did he think it necessary to tell her, at least for now. First, he would determine whether the man was of a mind to avoid prison.

  Stevens sighed in relief, but a wary look crept into his eyes. “Cooperate? Then you will want restitution? Unfortunately, my lord, the money has already been spent. I had a large number of expenses. Debts, that is.” He shot Elias an apologetic smile.

  “Perhaps I neglected to mention that Miss Marigold Bennett is prepared to give evidence as to the nature of some of those expenses. I imagine your wife will be very interested to hear her testimony. As will your other clients, who may find that they, too, have funds due them.”

  “Marigold? Oh, no, my lord, you cannot!” Stevens slumped in his chair.

  Watching a man’s disintegration was not pleasant, but Winston Stevens more than deserved his fate. According to Elias’s own solicitor, Jeremy Wilson, Stevens had often bragged to colleagues about his talented mistress. It had been reasonable to assume that he had also bragged to his mistress about his embezzlement schemes. When Miss Bennett had met them at Wilson’s office this morning, she confirmed his theory — and pocketed a hundred pounds for her trouble, having realized that she could no longer count on Stevens for her financial support.

  “Enough,” Elias commanded coldly. Stevens did not deserve his pity. Greed had brought about the man’s ruin. “The only way to avoid prison is to make restitution.”

  “B-b-but I have no money,” Stevens stammered.

  “Perhaps there are other means by which you can make amends,” Elias said.

  “Anything!” Stevens said fervently. “My lord, you have no idea how I regret my actions.”

  Elias rolled his eyes. The man was coming it a bit too brown, but at least he was willing. “I will require a complete list of the purchasers and the precise number of shares sold to each. I will also require an accounting of how many shares Lady Harriet still owns.”

  Stevens nodded eagerly. “I have kept good records.” He unlocked a drawer, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and thrust them into Elias’s hands.

  Elias perused the documents. Many of the names were familiar to him. Some were not, but his solicitor would track them down and buy their shares back. Unlike Winston Stevens, Jeremy Wilson was a diligent, dedicated, and honest man.

  There was one surprise on the list. “Oliver Hunt?” Elias scowled, the memory of last night’s encounter with the demagogue still fresh. “I thought his interest was in politics, not business.”

  “I, ah, sent letters to many of Lady Harriet’s acquaintances to gauge their interest in purchasing shares,” Stevens said. “Mr. Hunt responded eagerly. Perhaps he is hedging his bets against the vagaries of a political career.”

  Hedging his bets? Yes, that was possible. But not against the failure of his politics. Hunt was so convinced of his own brilliance that he would never consider the possibility of failure. No, if Hunt was hedging his bets, it had something to do with Lady Harriet. Elias had not failed to notice the warmth in Hunt’s gaze last night as he regarded her. That would bear watching.

  For now, Elias tucked the list into his pocket. The information about Hunt was vaguely disquieting, but what Stevens’s files revealed was more so. Lady Harriet’s solicitor had sold off nearly half of Freddy’s shares, more than Elias had expected. It would cost a pretty penny to buy them back. He wondered when he would break the news to her.

  Unsummoned, an image came to mind of the scene last night in Lady Harriet’s foyer. She had lost her composure, something he suspected did not happen often. For a moment or two Elias had wondered about his own composure. That brief, parting kiss had been sheer impulse, something he ordinarily was not given to.

  As he strode out of Winston Stevens’s office, Elias banished the stench of the man’s dishonesty with thoughts of primroses.

  ***

  “I have been wishing to try spelt for ages.” Harriet regarded the lump of dough resting comfortably in a large bowl in her kitchen. Celestial and the other servants had vanished, knowing she often was happiest working on her own.

  “Eustace did not come home until dawn,” Monica said glumly. She sat at the long worktable, her hands absently clutching a towel that Harriet had placed there.

  “See how the dough is soft, almost satiny, and requires little kneading?” Harriet marveled, oblivious to her friend’s worried features. “It is lovely.”

  “London is ruining him. He looks like a Cossack with those voluminous trousers and high collars. Why, he can scarcely manage to turn his head.”

  “Spelt has been used for thousands of years,” Harriet added. “It was good of Lady Hester to send it to me. ’Tis more authentic than that grown in England.”

  “He has no money to while away the night gambling, so he must have spent his time with a woman. Of the worst sort, no doubt. My poor Eustace!” Monica began to weep.

  Startled, Harriet looked up from her worktable. “Oh, dear, I am afraid I have not been attending. You are worried about Eustace?”

  Monica blew her nose on the towel. “Harriet, sometimes it is maddening to have you as a friend.”
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br />   “I am sorry.” Harriet abandoned her dough and moved to sit next to her. Monica was often given to fits of emotion, never more when her Eustace was involved. But Harriet could not imagine what had sent her friend into such a state. “Now, what is this new catastrophe?”

  “Eustace did not come home last night. He strolled in just as the servants were stirring this morning, still in his evening clothes.”

  “Surely, it would have been worse had he not been in them,” Harriet offered with an encouraging smile.

  Monica sniffed. “He does not know how to conduct himself among these sophisticated people. It was a mistake for us to come to London. He is being exposed to all manner of creatures, like that odious Mr. Hunt.”

  “Oliver Hunt?” Harriet looked surprised. “He may be a rabble-rouser, but he is harmless.”

  “Harmless? What do you know, Harriet? You think it delightful to have all of these strange people in your parlor, fomenting rebellion —”

  “Mr. Hunt was not fomenting rebellion,” Harriet said. “The man likes to practice his rhetoric, but I do not think four out of five people hold with his views.”

  “Ah, but the one — the one in five caught in Mr. Hunt’s net...I fear that is Eustace!”

  Harriet tilted her head consideringly. “He did seem rather enthralled last night when Mr. Hunt was speaking, but he is of an age when new ideas and people catch his fancy.”

  “Sometimes you have your head in the clouds, Harriet,” Monica said, shaking her head. “You blind yourself to the truth. It was the same with Freddy, and now, Lord Westwood.”

  “Freddy?” Harriet frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The way you turned a blind eye to his philandering. I hated to see you so degraded. It was not my place to say anything but now that the man is gone, surely you must see the situation more clearly.”

  Harriet paled. “My eyes were open then, Monica. Do not condemn my behavior because you do not understand it.”

  Monica thought about that for a moment. “You tolerated his womanizing. What is there to understand?”

  “That I am not wedded to anyone else’s notions of what my behavior should be,” Harriet said sharply. “That I did not wish to stifle Freddy’s happiness. His activities did not hurt me in the slightest.”

  Monica’s expression was so dubious that Harriet felt compelled to continue. “Marriage should not stifle either party’s unique nature,” she said.

  “I see.” The older woman arched a skeptical brow. “Then may I assume you had affairs as well?”

  Harriet blinked. “Certainly not!”

  “So it was only Freddy’s unique nature that required no stifling?” Her friend regarded her blandly.

  Harriet stared at her. “Why do you say these things?”

  “Because I wish you to see that you walk through the world with blinders on when it comes to men. That not every man has your best interests in mind when he whispers pretty words in your ear.”

  “Lord Westwood did not whisper pretty words in my ear,” Harriet insisted.

  Monica blinked. “I thought we were discussing Freddy.”

  “Actually, we were discussing Eustace.” Harriet rose and snatched the towel from the table. She had no wish to continue the conversation. Monica had a jaundiced attitude toward men, owing to her husband’s defection. She tended to paint all of them with the same brush.

  “Yes, well, Eustace is an innocent, just like you, my dear.” Monica eyed her sorrowfully. “I know you wish I had not spoken, and perhaps I should not have, but for all that you have been married, Harriet, you do not know the least about men. Eustace will be victimized, just as you were. I live in terror that my only son will have his heart broken — just as you did.”

  Harriet stood very still. “Monica Tanksley, I have never had my heart broken. And I never will.”

  Monica regarded her for a long moment. Then she sighed. “Very well. Tell me more about this...spelt, is it?”

  ***

  For the first time since being caught in Lady Harriet’s unsettling orbit, Elias regarded the whirl of activity around him with the knowledge that it was entirely normal.

  Lady Symington’s ball was just like every other London ball during the height of the Season. The hostess and her husband greeted an interminable line of guests as an orchestra tuned its instruments and a flurry of servants prepared for the late-night supper that would send them all home stuffed and satiated until they could rise at midday and prepare to do it all over again.

  Thank God that sort of life was behind him. He had almost become part of it permanently, when Zephyr Payne accepted his marriage proposal. The daughter of Lord Ellwood Payne, one of Lord Castlereagh’s intimates, Zephyr had been tending the wounded at the London hospital where Elias was recovering after being invalided home. In his weakened state he had taken one look at her delicate, heart-shaped face and sparkling green eyes and been utterly lost.

  How silly that seemed now. If he had married Zephyr, he would not have been free to roam the world in search of unusual spices with which to build his fortune. He would be shackled to a wife and children, reduced to dressing in evening attire every night and attending boring events like this one. He should be eternally grateful that Zephyr had chosen not to present herself that morning at St. Paul’s and elected to run off with Pembroke instead.

  Elias had not felt especially grateful at the time. Even now, when he thanked his stars that his life was very different from the one he would have had with Zephyr, the chagrin hadn’t entirely dissipated.

  The entire ton had assembled to witness their wedding — Zephyr was Lord Payne’s beautiful elder daughter and Elias himself had been considered something of a catch, the newspapers having blown his war exploits entirely out of proportion. Though he had distinguished himself no more than any other soldier at Salamanca, it pleased them to paint him as a hero.

  But it had required all of Elias’s military discipline to stand for three-quarters of an hour before staring, whispering guests who wondered why Lord Westwood’s bride had chosen to be late to her own wedding. The music went on interminably as the orchestra worked to fill the time.

  At last a red-faced Lord Payne had drawn him aside, clutching a missive from his wayward daughter explaining that she was likely enjoying Lord Pembroke’s husbandly embrace by now. Elias had bowed stiffly and, without a backward look, walked calmly out into the blazing sunshine.

  Humiliation did not sit well with him, and having his suit repudiated in such a public fashion before society’s elite was humiliating in the extreme. He had been angry, even enraged. But he had gone on to fashion another life for himself. Still, he had not entered a church since. And he had never allowed himself to form another serious liaison.

  Elias’s gaze narrowed as he watched Lady Harriet leave the dance floor with one of her many partners. Her salmon-colored gown — the fabric was a crisp silk, stiff enough nearly to stand on its own and walk away from all this nonsense — made him think of that first delicious meal she had prepared for him. Indeed, she looked good enough to devour tonight. He wondered whether the men who danced with her thought so. Oddly, they were not the usual dandies and tulips who cared more for the state of their leg padding than a lady’s comfort. Lord Castlereagh had danced with her, and Lord Holland, too. Sir Thomas Lawrence, lately knighted, had sought her out.

  Her most recent partner was an older gentleman who looked as out of place among Lady Symington’s glittering lamplight and tinsel as a humble pigeon at Michaelmas. Elias could not place the man, though he looked familiar. He was holding forth on some topic with great energy, and Lady Harriet was listening intently and with obvious respect.

  None of her partners were the sort to rouse in him the least bit of jealousy — though if Lady Harriet had truly been his betrothed, her obvious popularity might have given him pause. Even a man so advanced in years as the earnest gentleman she was now entertaining might harbor designs on so lovely a woman.

  She wa
s lovely. That thought caught him unawares. In fact, Elias reflected as it gained momentum, he had been drawn to her from the first time he saw her in her shop, covered in flour.

  He reminded himself that Lady Harriet was not his type. The females he preferred to entertain did not deny desire. They did not disavow any acquaintance with feminine arts. Most certainly, they did not dump foul-smelling muck on his head or force him to barter his person in exchange for the shares of his own business.

  The sort of female who appealed to him understood the nature of lust and did not view it as anything more complicated. Rather like the woman who now stood at his elbow, regarding him from exotic, deep-set eyes.

  “Good evening, Lord Westwood.” She did not lower her lashes or flutter them in a silly fashion like the debutantes. She did not show him a virgin’s pretty blushes. She looked straight at him, her velvet brown gaze meeting his without betraying a hint of coarseness even as they sparkled with invitation.

  A portrait of sophistication in a lemon yellow gown with daring but not scandalous décolletage, the woman had piled her glossy chestnut hair high on her head, leaving one tantalizing tendril free to grace her bare shoulder, the better to call attention to the magnificent emerald necklace that was the only other ornament gracing that swanlike swath of flesh.

  “You have the advantage of me, madam,” he said with a bow.

  “I am Lady Caroline Forth, a friend of your late associate, Lord Worthington.”

  Though he had never laid eyes on the woman, something in her familiar manner immediately told him that this delectable creature had been Freddy’s mistress.

  “I was surprised to learn that Lady Harriet planned to remarry,” she said easily. “She seems so much more comfortable on her own. You must have charmed her, my lord. I imagine you are very good at it.”

  Her eyes were wide with seeming innocence, but a challenge lurked within them.

  Yes, this was just the sort of female he preferred, Elias reflected, one who would not excite him to rage or rashness, but to simple, uncomplicated lust.