A Hasty Betrothal (16 page)

“I have no use for religion,” she said. “But faith, on the other hand, seems to have served Grandmother well. Except when it comes to her moments of shock. I confess I find her fainting spells puzzling. And utterly convenient. I should rather like to learn how to faint, for I believe it might stand me in good stead during moments of abject boredom.” She slanted him a crooked smile, which he thought surprisingly irresistible.

“I attend a quaint little chapel on the outskirts of London,” he found himself saying. “Perhaps this Sunday you'd like to attend with me?”

“Why, of course...” Her face fell. “I don't know. New places are...uncomfortable. You are used to this—” her hand fluttered toward her birthmark “—but it is alarming to some. I do not care to be stared at nor to embarrass you.”

Miles started, surprise shooting through him with all the force of a steam engine. “Whatever are you talking about? You could never embarrass me.”

“I assure you that I could.”

“What I am saying is that you are beautiful and graceful. You will be my wife,” he said in a stern voice. “I will never be ashamed to have you by my side.”

She blinked, looking down at the ledger. “Those are strong words.”

“I mean every one of them. As I told you, God has designed you just as you are. I shall be proud to have you on my arm.”

She made the slightest of sounds that might have been a sniffle. He frowned. Had he made her cry? Now his gut really knotted. He stood, unable to sit any longer.

“Check the ledger, please,” he said gruffly. “I wish to know exactly where you spotted the errors.”

Her head bent, the dark strands shining in the room's candlelight. In the silence, he became aware of the faint sounds of the mill that so often comforted, reminding him of long nights spent at his father's knee while some issue was attended to.

She shook her head. “This isn't right.”

He came over, bending to see closer. He should have brought his spectacles. The numbers blurred. He bent closer, searching where her finger pointed. “What is the problem?”

“These aren't the same values.”

He straightened. “What do you mean?”

She looked up, her expression confused. “I mean, this is not the same ledger I read before.”

Chapter Seventeen

S
omeone had traded the ledgers.

Elizabeth could hardly believe it, but the evidence glared at her from Miles's desktop. His face scrunched while he bent to look at the book. She caught a faint whiff of soap and woodsy cologne. She allowed herself an appreciative sniff.

“How can you tell?” he asked.

She pointed to the numbers. “What I thought odd was the cost of your new carding machines. I had read an article several months ago promoting the use of them, and I remember the price being far cheaper. There were also more entries in the other book for miscellaneous items.”

“I shall ring Grealey. Perhaps Mr. Shapely keeps two and has not updated this one.”

A terrible suspicion was taking root in Elizabeth's stomach. What if Grealey were up to no good? What if he were stealing from Miles? As she pushed back from the desk and stood, she wondered how feasible it would be to share the thought with Miles.

His agitated stance, the tension radiating from him as he strode to the door, decided for her. She needn't add to his worries. A good wife soothed her husband.

A hot burn scalded her cheeks. She wasn't his wife yet, but the prospect seemed less and less horrendous. She studied him carefully, recalling the gangly youth of childhood now fleshed into a mature man. So much more serious than she'd ever anticipated.

He had been right, she mused, while they waited for Grealey. Locking herself up at Windermar, shutting herself off from the world, had taken much more from her than experience. His hair, mussed from nervous fingers, stuck up in different directions.

What would he do if she walked over and casually straightened his unruly locks? Or if she leaned up and kissed his freshly shaven cheek?

His gaze met hers then, and every part of her trembled at the look he gave her. Did he know her thoughts? Though he stood at the door and she at the desk, the distance between them shrank beneath the power of their shared glance.

To know someone since childhood, to see him young and then grown, and yet...she felt as though she hardly knew him at all. His marriage to Anastasia had truly hurt him in ways she could not fathom.

“Grealey shall arrive in a moment,” he said, his voice a rumble that soothed her senses.

What was wrong with her? Just because he called her beautiful did not mean she should overthink his feelings toward her. And yet her heart would not stop its confounded pitter-pattering.

Elizabeth moved toward Miles. “Though I should like to stay and confront that odious man, Miss Townsley and Jenna await. I am so happy I was able to see you today. I should like to attend your chapel and perhaps then you may share with me Mr. Shapely's response.”

“I will send a post to your London address with the name and location of the church.” He stepped to the side, allowing her to exit.

She was altogether too aware of the breadth of his shoulders and scent of his skin. She swept by, head up, when what she wanted the most was to hold him close and assure him that she would never hurt him as Anastasia had.

The ladies waited for her outside. During their two day journey, they chatted about what had been successful in their approach with the children and what needed more work. Miss Townsley was full of practical ideas, but Elizabeth scrambled to pay attention. Her mind kept wandering, skipping all over the place.

From Miles and his impassioned words about her beauty to the strangeness of the accounts. Something was dreadfully wrong, but what?

If only she could stay and help him, but duties called. She struggled to put an ear to the conversation. They spoke of obtaining better writing utensils, more books. Of engaging the Littleshire community in helping the children.

All grand plans.

She gazed out the window at the passing trees, the verdant grasses and the air that grew fresher the farther they traveled from Littleshire. Soon she'd be married, but only as a countermeasure. Though it had seemed the right choice at the time, now she wondered if it might be even more lonely to be a wife without love than a ruined woman.

It was all so very confusing. At times Miles eyed her with a strange intensity, but then he returned to his laughing self. And he'd invited her to church.

Church, of all places.

Her faith had wilted long ago, bent beneath the harsh blows of reality, but lately a change had been taking place within. A softening, and as she watched the land pass, covered in cloud-shaped shadows, the newly blooming flowers ripening the air, she couldn't help but feel that this Sunday might be an exciting moment for her. As if flowers bloomed within her.

How would Shakespeare write this feeling? More adeptly than she, certainly.

Attending chapel was another scary step into a world unaccustomed to her looks. The very thought quivered her spine and brought up the urge to bury herself so deeply in a library that she need never claw her way out.

Her thoughts traveled to the young stable hand so long ago.
Luke.
Just a boy, really, but his incredulity that she had thought he found her pretty still stung.

He had been so kind to her, which was what had confused her. Made her think he found her attractive, but in the end, he had only been trying to do his job well.

Which brought her thoughts circling back to today, to the oddness of agreeing to be seen publicly. But wasn't that what being betrothed meant? What else would be required when she married? Certainly she'd attend church with him once in a while.

Going to church with Miles... She sighed. They would sit together in the pew, she supposed. Only a month before she had not seen a future beyond living with Grandmother and finding new novels to read and writing articles about fascinating advances in technology.

“Heavy thoughts, my lady?” Miss Townsley asked. Her inquisitive brown eyes gave the impression of seeing too much.

Elizabeth forced a smile. “Always heavy, as worries tend to be.”

Miss Townsley laughed. “That is positively true. Which is why for the longest time I tried very hard to never think at all.”

Despite herself, curiosity rose. “And then something happened?”

Miss Townsley cocked her head, expression sobering. “Life, my lady. Life forced my hand.”

“As it does to us all,” murmured Elizabeth.

And she wondered what Sunday would bring.

* * *

Sunday brought Miles a measure of anxiety in heaping doses. He readied for church, hands unsteady and mood sour. Elizabeth might not show up. That would be for the best. Or so he told himself as he climbed into the rig. Powell joined him, and so did the upper housemaids.

The misty morning threatened rain, but it was too late to change vehicles. His mood dampened even more.

“Are you all right, sir?” Powell slid him a questioning look, his used Bible slipping precariously across his lap as they rounded a corner toward the south London area. He stopped it with the flat of his palm.

Miles hesitated. Powell had been with him since he turned eighteen. The man was not much older than he, though he behaved like an old man sometimes. Confiding in a servant was not the wisest choice, but then again, they knew all the goings-on anyway.

“What do you think of my betrothal to Lady Elizabeth?” he asked carefully.

“Very sudden, sir, and unlike you.”

Miles nodded, gratified by the honest words. “She is not Anastasia.”

“Not in any way, sir.” The words, spoken with vehemence, rippled through Miles.

“You think not?”

“Absolutely not.”

Somewhat comforted, though he knew not why, Miles nodded his thanks. “She may be at chapel this morning,” he finally said. His voice sounded rough in the early morning.

“That is good news. The lady does not strike me as the type who cares for the pomp and circumstance of a London church.”

“That is true. I believe she prefers a smaller, more quiet church experience.”

“This may be out of place, but what weighs on your mind, Mr. Hawthorne?”

Miles sighed. He slid a glance to Powell. Faithful valet for so long. “Your discretion has always been greatly appreciated. I value your service. Forgive me for waiting until now to ask this of you, but I believe I may need to make some serious inquiries. Perhaps even engage the services of a runner.”

“Bow Street?”

“Possibly. There have been odd incidents at the factories. Mysterious equipment failures and a discrepancy in the books. Do you know how to go about engaging a detective?” His specialty lay in business, not law. And all of his instincts were screaming that something was amiss.

“I believe I can find out, sir.”

“Excellent.” They were nearing the chapel. Traveling through a pretty little part of London filled with small homes and clean streets. The smell of the Thames was not so strong here and the chapel's tall structure could be seen from the street.

“Only pray I do not make a muck out of this situation.”

“Sir, if I may.” Powell placed his hand on Miles's shoulders, a gesture completely out of the ordinary for his usually staid valet. “I shall be praying for you daily, but do not forget that Lady Elizabeth is unusual, different than others of the ton.”

“Thank you, Powell.” Miles exited the rig and together they walked up the stone pathway to the chapel, which sat on a little hill above the homes. The mist gathered about the steeple, a protective shroud of silver droplets. At the door, two figures huddled, one small of stature with hair the color of an aged rose.

Elizabeth.

His pulse quickened despite every instinct to tamp it down. As they neared, he heard Powell draw in a deep breath. Distracted, his gaze shifted to the woman next to Elizabeth. She looked familiar. Her lady's maid, a pretty woman with a great poof of blond hair twisted into a chignon.

He glanced at Powell. His butler wore a rapt expression. The bell tolled, chiming through the air in sweet, melodic notes.

“At last.” Elizabeth rushed forward. “I believe we may be late, but I did not want to go in without you. I thought it best for Powell to escort Jenna to the servant's gallery.”

Powell and he exchanged a glance.

“My dear, this is a small chapel. There is no servant's gallery, for inside those walls, all are equal.”

Elizabeth's brows rose. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

Miles grinned. “Not once, my lady? Surely a woman of your book learning has read of places in which social standing is irrelevant.”

“Only in
Utopia
, sir.” But she answered his grin with a shy smile of her own, and in that very second, all felt right with his world. They entered the chapel together, and though the service had started, some turned to wave. A few curious glances flickered toward them, but they quietly found seats in the very back without causing any great disturbance.

The pastor's voice, flavored with a thick Scottish accent, spoke of worries and casting them all on the Lord. It was a good service, and at the end, his shoulders felt lighter.

As their group left the church, his friend Langford approached them. His wife followed behind. “Miles, are we still on for next week at Vauxhall Gardens?”

“We are. You remember Lady Elizabeth, my betrothed?” He watched her closely.

Her face flushed but she kept her gaze steady as she murmured a greeting.

“My darling Sarah will be going, as well. How many in our party, Miles?”

As they talked, they meandered to where the curricles were parked. Like Miles, Langford lived in London. He worked in investments.

They exchanged pleasantries and Miles was proud to see Bitt hold her own in the conversation, even finding a shared enthusiasm with Langford's wife about some lady writer he had never heard of.

After they had left, he faced Elizabeth. “Vauxhall Gardens next week.”

“I shall look forward to it. Did you hear anything about the ledgers?”

“Looking into it.” Miles grimaced. “I confess to finding the entire matter surprising. It's odd. You would think Shapely would have told me if he carries more than one ledger.”

“It's a possibility I hadn't considered.”

“But why all of the accidents?” He shook his head, surprised that he felt the liberty to tell her these things. “Something doesn't add up.”

She gave him a winsome smile. “I have every confidence that you shall resolve the matter.”

Her faith in him was rewarding. Would he live up to her expectations?