Candice Hern (21 page)

Nick was startled into silence. His father had always been the conventional one. Nick’s mother had been rather wild and unpredictable, with a passionate nature in keeping with her Italian blood and artistic temperament. She had led his father a merry dance. And sometimes not so
merry. Bartholomew had always been steadfast and solid as a rock.

“You misunderstand me, Father. I am surprised, that’s all. For most of my life you have been a quiet country gentleman. I am not used to this London gentleman yet. Come, have breakfast with me.”

“I will have a cup of coffee, but no more. Frankly, I’d like to go upstairs and catch a few hours’ sleep.”

He left his hat and gloves on the hall table and followed Nick into the dining room. He sat down wearily and accepted the coffee Nick poured for him.

“Let me try to explain something to you,” he said. “I have indeed been a quiet country gentleman these last fifteen years. But only because Helena was no longer there to bring a bit of noise into my life. A bit of laughter. A bit of fun. A great deal of passion. I have missed that, Nick.”

“We have all missed Mother. But I always assumed your grief was so profound that you preferred to be alone with it. That is why, I thought, you never came to town.”

“I have grown overly comfortable up in the Peak. I did remain there because of Helena. She died there, and I felt closer to her there. Even after the raw pain of losing her subsided, I grew lazy and set in my ways. I was perfectly content with my routine existence, with my books and my birds and the natural beauty of the Peak. At least,
I thought I was content. And then I came to Edwina’s wedding.”

“And met Flora.”

“She took my breath away, Nick. And has brought me back to life.”

“Then I shall always honor her for it. It is good to see you so happy again.”

“I have not been unhappy, Nick. Please do not think so. I was just…settled. As one grows older, it is easier to simply keep things as they are. I daresay I needed someone to light a fire under me to make me change my ways.”

“And Flora is that fire.”

His father grinned, but did not comment, for which Nick was grateful. There were certain things about one’s parents that were best kept private.

“Did she enjoy the ball?” Nick asked.

“Immensely. She was surreptitiously taking notes for some sort of article.”

“One of her fashion reports, no doubt.”

“She loves working on the magazine. Did you know? She thrives on it.”

“I am glad to hear it. She has added a great deal to its success.”

His father gave a huge, wide-mouthed yawn. “I am for bed, Nick. You will have to excuse me.” He rose and walked to the door, then turned.

“By the way, Prudence was quite the belle of the ball last night, was she not?”

“Yes, she was.”

“You must have been very proud. She looked quite beautiful.”

He ought to have been proud, but he’d been stupidly jealous and possessive instead. “Yes, she was beautiful last night.” An image came into his mind of her lying beneath him, her apricot curls in a wild disarray against the white linen of the pillow slip, her blue eyes dark and glassy with desire. “Very beautiful.”

The
Cabinet
was bustling with activity. Pru had not had a moment’s peace since arriving. The new engravings had been delivered, but they were short by several hundred copies. The binder stopped by to discuss more substantial wrappers, as the current stock was too flimsy to accommodate the recent increase in pages. Two booksellers had sent clerks to purchase additional copies of the new issue, and Pru had convinced them to increase their monthly orders. She received notes from several other booksellers requesting additional copies, and had to make arrangements with Imber for another short print run.

She had wondered what was causing the sudden surge of interest, until Flora strolled in, beaming with triumph.

“Have you heard? The day is barely half over and already all of London is abuzz with the news.”

“What news?”

“
The Ladies’ Fashionable Cabinet
’s first annual list
of the worst-dressed ladies in London, that’s what.”

“Oh! Should I be concerned, Flora, or pleased?”

“Very pleased, I should think. Everyone is talking about it. I would not be surprised if your subscription numbers increased.”

Pru was fairly certain they already had done. “Well then, I shall elect to be pleased. Increased revenue is always a good thing.”

“Miz Parrish?” Madge peeked her head in the office. “A Mr. Grossett to see you, ma’am. About ’is advertisements, ’e says.”

“Oh, thank you, Madge. Please send him in. Flora, you had better check on the Ladies. The new engravings came in today.”

Pru quickly completed her business with Mr. Grossett, who wanted to increase the advertisements for his hosiery emporium to a full column each month. A few minutes later, a stationer’s representative came by to try to encourage her to upgrade the magazine stock. She was reviewing his samples and price list when Madge announced yet another caller. “A Lady Bertram, ma’am. She wouldn’t tell me ’er business. Looks fit ter burstin’, though.”

Lady Bertram? Her name sounded familiar, but Pru could not place it. She was probably one of those women who thought she could write, and had brought along a story or poem to have printed in the
Cabinet
. Well, Pru did not have time for her today. She would take her pages, promise
to look at them within the next month, and send her on her way.

“All right, Madge. Show her in.”

Pru became distracted by the stock samples and did not hear the woman enter.

“Madam?”

Pru looked up at the sound of the chilly voice. A woman glared at her from the doorway. She was of average height and stocky build, and her brown hair was dressed in ringlets much too young for her face. They peeked out from beneath the brim of a Spanish cap with the most incongruously curled plume, reaching clear from the nape of her neck to dangle over her forehead.

Pru had a sudden premonition of why the woman was here.

“Yes? May I help you?”

“
I
am Lady Bertram.”

“And I am Mrs. Parrish, acting editor of the
Cabinet
. What may I do for you, ma’am?”

“You may explain why you have sullied my reputation in your magazine?”

“Ah.” Her suspicions were correct. Damnation. “Are you perhaps named in this month’s special list?”

“You have branded me one of the worst-dressed woman in London. Can you deny writing such a lie?”

“I admit to publishing it. One of our staff members actually wrote the article.”

“You are not Vestis Elegantis?”

“No, ma’am. But that person does work for me.”

“Who is she? I will know her name at once.”

“I am afraid I cannot tell you that, Lady Bertram. The identity of our writers and correspondents is strictly confidential.”

“Then I shall hold
you
responsible. You may expect a visit from my solicitor. I plan a suit for libel.”

Pru glanced down at stock samples and other work on her desk needing attention, and decided she simply did not have time for Lady Bertram’s nonsense. She heaved a sigh and looked up at her. “That would be a very foolish thing to do, don’t you think?”

The woman’s face grew almost purple, and her eyes bulged wide. “How
dare
you speak to me like that. Do you know who I am?”

“You have said you are Lady Bertram. I see no reason to disbelieve you.”

“Why, you brazen little trollop. We shall see how cool you will be when you are sued for every pathetic shilling in your coffers.”

“Lady Bertram, if you sue the magazine I daresay you will find your sudden cachet as a list maker sink dramatically. The beau monde, you know, has no love for a person who makes a public fuss over nothing.”

“And who are
you
to make judgments about your betters? A woman who works for a living in a business not fit for a lady. A woman who uses a rough-talking slattern as a gatekeeper. Who are
you
to pretend to know anything about the beau monde? A shopkeeper’s daughter?” She gave an audible sniff.

Pru wasn’t sure what came over her. Perhaps it was that sniff. She rose from her seat and glared at the woman. “Not that it is any of your business, Lady Bertram, but since you seem so keen to know, I will tell you. I am the granddaughter of the Duke of Norwich, niece of the current duke. My father is Lord Henry Armitage, and my mother was the daughter of Viscount St. Clair. I suspect, madam, that my blood is several shades bluer than yours.”

The woman visibly flinched. “Oh.” She had suddenly lost all the wind in her sails, and seemed not to know what to do.

“Lady Bertram, the list was a tongue-in-cheek bit of fun. I am sorry you were offended by it. But if you will accept a little advice, I would recommend that you take advantage of the temporary notoriety. You see, Lady Bertram’s name will be on everyone’s lips and everyone’s invitation list. People will be paying attention to you and to what you wear. You will be flooded with invitations because everyone will want the notorious Lady Bertram at their social event. It is really quite the opportunity of a lifetime. I suggest you make the best of it, ma’am.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

“I am sure if you put your mind to it, you will see I am right. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

And she disappeared out the door.

“Brava, my dear.”

“Nicholas!” Her cheeks flooded with heat. She
had not seen him since she’d left his bed last night. It was unsettling to find him standing there looking as superbly handsome as ever and with his usual friendly smile, and yet to remember his beautiful naked body and how he had used it. Her own body tingled at the memory. “I did not know you were here. Were you listening?”

“Flora and I were hovering in the shadows. You handled that shrew very well.”

“Indeed you did,” Flora said, peeking her head in the doorway. “I wish I could have seen her face when you told her who you are.”

“What exactly did you write about her, Flora?” Nicholas asked.

“Just a description of the dress she wore to the opera. I believe I said she had been swathed in Venetian style drapery better suited to a drawing room window. That the color was unflattering and made her look overblown. Oh, and I might have mentioned something about the Easter altar lilies having apparently been transported to her head.”

Nicholas threw back his head and laughed. “It is no great marvel she blew in with such a head of steam. I wonder if Pru can expect visits from the other nine ladies listed?”

“Good heavens, I hope not,” Pru said. “I could not do that again. I still cannot believe I actually said those things to her. I have just been so busy that I was somewhat distracted. My mind was elsewhere. I daresay if I had been able to give her my full attention, I would have remembered to be nervous.”

“You were brilliant,” Flora said. “You must get distracted more often. And I shouldn’t worry about the others. Lady Julia Howard, for example, is quite puffed up with her own consequence at being named to the list. It seems she is pleased with my ‘fresh-from-the-tumbrel’ description of her cropped hair and not at all offended to have her shocking dress referred to as a vulgar French affectation.”

Nicholas laughed again. “Flora, I do believe you have a nasty streak.”

“It will all balance out next month, when the best-dressed list is published. By the way, Pru, have you shown Nicholas the new engravings?”

“No.”

“What engravings?” he asked.

“Next month’s fashion prints,” Flora said. “Come along and I’ll show you. And you, too, Pru. I want you to see what the Ladies are doing.”

Flora led the way to the workroom where the Crimson Ladies worked. Pru followed, and Nicholas touched the small of her back briefly, causing a tremor to dance up and down her spine. She could not help thinking of other ways he’d touched her.

The Ladies were hard at work, each one of them bent over a print, adding color. Flora stood over Polly and reached for a completed print. It was the one that showed Pru in her lavender tunic dress. Flora handed it to Nicholas, and his eyes widened.

“Pru? This is you? In the dress you wore last night?”

“Yes.”

He stared long and hard at the print with an odd expression on his face that might have been wonder. “This is splendid.” He looked up at her and smiled. “Truly splendid. And a smashing good likeness. You make a beautiful model, Pru. Especially in that dress.”

“Doesn’t she?” Flora said. “Polly, show Mrs. Parrish what you’ve done.”

“I jus’ mixed up a bit o’ yeller and a bit o’ pink to make the hair just your color, ma’am,” Polly said. “Sort o’ peachy, like. Oh, an’ I been puttin’ tiny dots o’ blue on the eyes.”

“And we’re bein’ exter careful wid the dress,” Ginny said. “See this nice pale purply color Flora asked us ter use? Since it’s a picher o’ you, Miz Nick, we want to make it real nice.”

Pru was so touched she wanted to cry. “Thank you, ladies. Thank you, all. I do appreciate your efforts.”

“May I have a copy?” Nicholas asked, and Pru’s heart swelled with pride.

“’Course yer can, Mr. Nick,” Ginny said. “Thought yer might be wantin’ one. Here y’are. All nice and dry.”

Pru watched Nicholas study the colored print and wondered what he was thinking. Was he remembering last night, when he’d removed that very dress and held her naked in his arms?

He looked at her and smiled. “I shall have this framed,” he said. “It shall be a memento of the first ball at which you danced every single set.”

It would be a memento for Pru of much, much more.

N
ick supposed it was never a good idea to tell a woman you wanted to have a talk with her. If he’d had any sense, he would have simply plunged ahead with what he had to say without giving her the time to fret over it.

For that was surely what Pru had done. She was perched on the edge of the settee, stiff-backed and tense, her hands clasped in her lap, and looked for all the world like a prisoner in the dock awaiting sentence.

As they had driven back to Golden Square from St. Paul’s Churchyard, he had thought to offer his apology, but it simply had not seemed an appropriate setting for what was sure to be an awkward conversation. And so, like a dashed idiot, he had
instead announced that he would like to have a talk with her when they returned home.

She had gone very quiet for a moment, then had said simply, “All right.” She had not asked the purpose or subject of the talk. There was only one great issue hanging between them, so she undoubtedly guessed his intent. But the time spent driving home, washing up, and waiting for him to join her had allowed her to stew over it, and she was obviously strung tight with anxiety.

He sat down beside her, sitting almost sideways on the settee so he could face her. She did not look at him, but kept her eyes on the hands in her lap.

“I owe you an apology, Pru.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and for an instant he thought she had winced. But it had been such a fleeting expression, he could not be sure. Her face went blank as an egg, and she stared straight ahead.

“I made a promise to you the day after our wedding, and twice now I have broken that promise, most shamefully last night.” He tried to read her expression, to sense her feelings, but her face remained inscrutable. “I promised to give you time, to wait until you were ready before consummating our marriage. Instead, under the influence of anger and too much wine, I took advantage of you. I forced a sexual relationship on you before you wanted it. And I hurt you badly in the process.”

Her eyes widened slightly and the color rose in her cheeks.

“I want you to know how sorry I am, Pru, and to assure you I will not behave so disgracefully
again. If there is to be a physical relationship between us, and I hope there is, it shall be when you feel comfortable with it. When you are truly ready. Do you understand, Pru?”

She gave a stiff nod, but did not look at him.

He reached out and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and turned her face toward him. Her eyes were wide and bright with unshed tears. “Tell me, did I hurt you very badly? Physically, I mean.”

She shook her head, and the color in her cheeks deepened. He wished he knew whether it was despair or embarrassment that made her so uncomfortable. He wished she would say something. He continued to hold her chin so he could at least look into her eyes and try to fathom her thoughts.

“I would never deliberately hurt you, Pru.”

She swallowed. “I know.” Her voice was barely a whisper. But it was something.

He stroked a thumb along her jaw, and willed her not to turn away again when he let go. And she did not.

“I want a real marriage with you,” he said. “I want a physical relationship with you. I enjoyed what happened between us last night, even knowing the pain you suffered. At least you need not worry about that again. But I promise you, Pru, I will never force myself on you. When we make love again, it will be when you think it is right, when you feel comfortable about it.”

“It was not force.” She seemed to have found her voice, though it was still whispery soft.

“No, it wasn’t. But it was coercion. When I pressed my attentions on you, I did not make it easy for you to object. And that was wrong. So I think we should start over. We must become accustomed to being private together, to being physical with each other, to touching, even kissing.”

He cupped her face in his hand and brushed a soft kiss over her lips. She gave a little shudder, and he pulled away. “If I move too fast again, Pru, you must tell me. And I mean that. I cannot know what you want if you do not tell me. You are comfortable speaking to me of other things. Why not this, too?”

She turned slightly away from him and gave a little snort.

“Will you forgive my behavior last night?”

She looked at him again. “There is nothing to forgive.”

He lifted her hand from her lap, took it to his lips, and kissed it. “Thank you, Pru.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“You said you were angry last night. Was it something I did? Was it because you thought I was flirting with my cousin?”

He stifled a groan. “No, my dear, I was not angry with you. I know you were not flirting. You were simply happy and enjoying yourself. It was churlish of me to suggest otherwise. It was the drink talking, and I apologize for that. No, I was angry about some bad news I’d had that morning.”

“What news?”

“If I tell you, do you promise not to wag your finger and say, ‘I told you so’?”

She cast him a quizzical look. “I promise.”

“I learned that the Culwyn canal project is near failure. It seems an additional, and larger, engine is required for the pump if the water is ever to be drained. The company has run out of money. Rumor is they are going to put a halt to the project within the next week.”

“And you are heavily invested?”

“Yes. And coming on the heels of the
Ulysses
loss, it was an especially unwelcome piece of news.”

“I am sorry, Nicholas.”

“So am I. But I still have a few irons in the fire, so to speak. One in particular that should net decent profits very soon.”

“What is it? If you don’t mind telling me.”

“I have an sizable interest in a re-export scheme. We import sugar and coffee from the West Indies and America, then export it to Amsterdam.”

She frowned. “It is still basically an investment in cargo shares, is it not?”

“Yes, but with greater potential for profit. I had a small share a while ago that paid enough to help me purchase the land in Derbyshire. I’ve sunk a larger amount this time, and the profits I anticipate will pay for much of the machinery and reconstruction costs.”

“Do you not worry about losing another ship? It has been a terrible year for shipping.”

“Most of the losses have been in the west, in
the Atlantic or the Irish Sea. This ship, the
Benjamin
, is in the North Sea, practically in Amsterdam already.”

“I shall keep my fingers crossed, then.”

“Thank you, my dear. You must know how badly I want to get started on the Derbyshire factory complex.”

“Nicholas?” She tilted her head at a quizzical angle. “How did you become so passionate about factory reform?”

“You should know the answer to that, Pru. You know my political views. Heavens, you’ve edited enough of them over the years. Any progressive thinker would feel the same as I do.”

“But I sense something more…personal at work. Was there something that set you on this course? Something specific?”

“You are sometimes very astute, Mrs. Parrish. Yes, there was something. A long time ago.”

“What was it?”

Nick took a deep breath and blew it out his cheeks. It was a story that still pained him after all these years. And drove him.

“I had a playmate as a child,” he began. “Alfie Blanden. He lived on a nearby tenant farm. Not one of ours, but close by. It was a very small farm, and not very productive. Alfie’s family had been dirt poor, but it had never mattered to us as we romped about the countryside. The farm failed one too many years in a row, and his father moved the family up to Manchester where he took work in a textile factory. Alfie and his mother and all his
siblings were going to work there as well.”

Nick smiled wistfully at the memory of his little red-haired friend. “Poor old Alfie was beside himself with excitement. He felt very superior and very grown up to think that he would be working on some great huge machinery while I was still in the schoolroom. I didn’t understand any of the implications of such a life and was seriously jealous. I couldn’t stop thinking about Alfie and his grown-up factory job. About six months later, I actually ran away from home, picking up rides along the twenty or so miles to Manchester.”

“How old were you?” Pru asked.

“Nine. Same as Alfie. I found the factory where he worked and figured he must live nearby, so I started asking around. I was finally able to locate the lodgings where his family lived. No one was there during the day, so I waited. I watched as one after another member of Alfie’s family straggled home, looking exhausted and dirty. But not Alfie. He never came.”

“Oh, no.” A terrible sadness gathered in Pru’s eyes. She would know what came next.

“I knocked on the door and was met by Alfie’s mother, looking surly and tired. Behind the door was only a single room where the entire family lived. One small room for a family of seven. It was untidy and filthy, and smelled of human waste. I asked when Alfie would be back, and his mother told me he’d been killed in a machinery accident. Just like that. Very matter-of-fact. I’ll never forget that moment. His mother hadn’t even seemed to
grieve for him. She had sounded as though such things were inevitable, and she’d call herself lucky if all she lost was one child.”

Nick rubbed a hand across his forehead, massaging his temples. The day was still sharp in his memory, even twenty-three years later. “She did not invite me in, because there was no food to share. Why did you come, she asked me. To work alongside Alfie, I said. To have a job in a factory and my own money. She laughed out loud. Go home, she said. Go home to your soft bed and your safe life. There is nothing for you here. And she slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh, Nicholas.”

“Ever since that day, I have dreamed of helping to improve the life of factory workers. Without money, the best I can do is fight for parliamentary reform. But true reform—beyond whatever insignificant measures make it into law, real change that can only be implemented by progressive owners—takes money. The right owner with enough money can do it properly, can foster change and make a real difference in the lives of workers. And that is my dream, Pru. That is why I am forever trying to grow what little capital I have. To provide a safe workplace and decent living quarters for the families. To make sure that no more nine-year-old boys are forced to do a man’s job and put their lives in danger.”

“It’s an excellent dream,” Pru said. “I can see now why it is so important to you. And I promise to help, Nicholas, in any way you will allow.”

Pru loved Nick more than life, but the man could be stubborn as a mule. He seemed to get certain ideas fixed in his head and there was no shaking them.

Like his crackbrained notion that she had allowed him to make love to her without her full consent. He said he’d had too much to drink. Was he so bosky he hadn’t noticed she’d said yes when he asked? Hadn’t noticed her embarrassingly complete cooperation? Hadn’t noticed her idiotic grin of triumph afterward? No, probably not that, since he’d begun snoring the minute he rolled off her. But hadn’t he paid any attention at all before falling asleep?

Pru was determined somehow to overcome her embarrassment and let him know she wanted to share his bed again. She wasn’t sure how she would be able to say such a thing aloud, but she must try. She was tired, sick and tired, of his apologies. It broke her heart every time he told her he was sorry. She did not want his apologies. She wanted
him
. And she was resolved to let him know that. Somehow.

And then there was the factory project and his fixation on making money. It seemed to Pru that until Nicholas had enough capital to support his project, he would continue to be preoccupied with financial matters. Quite frankly, she would prefer him to be preoccupied with her, but that would not happen as long as he kept losing money. She hated to see him so on edge, so worried that his
wonderful dream would never come true. He would never be truly happy until his financial future was settled. And because she loved him, she wanted him to be happy. But their lives would be a constant balancing act if he continued on his path of risky investments.

She adored Nicholas, loved his passion for social reform, his dedication to change. He was like Edwina in that respect, though with more zeal and less patience. She understood the drive that took him to France in support of the Revolution and now to a factory complex in Derbyshire. He wanted to be more than a man of words, writing speeches and political tracts and magazine articles. He wanted to be a man of action. He was filled with energy to
do
something.

And it was that aspect of his character she worried about when she thought of their financial future. He was too impulsive and too impatient—not a good combination for wise investment. He was going to lose his shirt if he was not careful.

All he needed was one good return, one large enough to put his project in action. Once he had done that, Pru was fairly confident she could convince him to let her advise him on the financial management of the business while he concentrated on the practical details of making it all work. He had already sheepishly admitted that he had taken her advice and invested in the Hull dock expansion project, so he obviously had some confidence in her opinion. Perhaps she could even convince him to let her manage that part of the
business for him, because a man like Nicholas would never be happy with his head in an accounting ledger. Pru, on the other hand, rather enjoyed that sort of thing. She was methodical and cautious when it came to managing money, and that was exactly what a successful business required. She would have to give up the
Cabinet
, but she would happily do so if Nicholas needed her.

One good return. That was all it would take to make his dream come true.

And Pru was going to see that it happened.

With the help of her father’s man of affairs, she tracked down Matthew Cracken, the agent for the Dutch export shipments, including those on the
Benjamin
. He confirmed her fears that the ship had not been sighted in days, and was already overdue at its destination. Mr. Cracken had all the records of Nick’s share in the cargo, but was not confident in the expected returns.