The Worldly Widow (28 page)

Annabelle did not own Bailey
'
s Press outright. Her partner, a certain Mrs. Dobie, was half-owner and had her house in the village of Hampstead. Their arrangement was an amicable one. Decisions affecting the operation of the business were left entirely to Annabelle
'
s discretion. Mrs. Dobie was content merely to share in the profits and accept Annabelle
'
s verbal report in January and June of every year. This was October. Bailey
'
s was on the verge of a new enterprise. With one thing and another, cash reserves were at an all-time low. It was imperative that Annabelle discuss her solution to the problem with her partner.

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of a small stuccoed villa which nestled in a grove of plum trees behind a brick wall. In a matter of minutes Annabelle was ushered inside the vestibule by a young maid. Her wraps were removed, and she was shown into a very feminine parlor displaying every kind of bric-a-brac and where a cheery coal fire blazed a welcome.

Mrs. Dobie, a small stout lady on the wrong side of fifty, had always displayed a natural reserve in Annabelle
'
s presence. On this occasion a spate of effusive words gushed from her lips. Annabelle found herself clasped to the lady
'
s ample bosom, and a smacking kiss was placed squarely on her cheek. Surprise
was gradually overtaken by enlightenment.

Moving toward one of the blue velvet upholstered Queen Anne chairs which flanked the fireplace, Annabelle said, "Oh, you noticed the ring Lord Dalmar gave me.
"

"My dear, I couldn
'
t be more happy for you.
"

Mrs. Dobie opened the doors of a squat mahogany bureau and removed a decanter of sherry and two small crystal glasses. The ritual was as familiar to Annabelle as it was welcome. The decanter and glasses were placed on a small side table at Annabelle
'
s elbow. It was always she who did the honors, since her companion averred that her eyesight was not what it once had been.

The two ladies sipped their sherries in companionable silence. Not till the second glass was broached would Mrs. Dobie hear of any business being introduced into the conversation. Annabelle answered and parried a number of questions all of which revolved around Dalmar and her projected nuptials. In her turn, she enquired after the health of the lady
'
s only living relatives, some distant cousins who were domiciled in Wales. After an interval, she raised the matter which had brought her so far out
of her
way.

Though she had absolutely no interest in books or publishing, Mrs. Dobie always listened to Annabelle in rapt silence, occasionally throwing out a neutral "Really?
"
or "You don
'
t say!
"
Annabelle could never disabuse herself of the notion that her partner viewed her as if she were some unusual specimen of butterfly that she would dearly love to net and pin in her collection. In point of fact, Mrs. Dobie viewed Annabelle as something of an Amazon and went very much in awe of her.

Annabelle never went into a business meeting without rehearsing in her mind exactly what she wished to say and what objective she wished to reach. She began by outlining her plans to open up new avenues of distribution for the inexpensive line of books Bailey
'
s had begun to produce. She spoke of a new reading public which nothing could induce to step inside the doors of a regular bookshop. She mentioned Longmans and their growing investment in advertising so that a demand for their product was created as the books came off the presses.

She reminded her partner of the fleet of Stanhope presses which were still to be paid for. She spoke of authors and their advances, wages, upkeep, and taxes. In short, she spoke of everything that would persuade her partner that, though business was thriving, a shortage of capital at this particular juncture would be a crippling handicap from which Bailey
'
s might never recover.

Like a sponge, Mrs. Dobie absorbed every word that fell from Annabelle
'
s lips. When Annabelle reached the end of her monologue, her companion looked suitably impressed.

"What it comes down to,
"
said Annabelle, flashing the older woman a rueful grin, "is this: every spare penny must be plowed back into the business, at least for the foreseeable future. Do you agree?
"

"Oh, I think so,
"
was the cautious rejoinder.

"I won
'
t be paying myself a penny in wages for a good twelvemonth or more.
"

"Don
'
t let that trouble you,
"
said Mrs. Dobie consolingly. "I
'
m sure your husband will pick up your expenses.
"

Swallowing back a retort about Bailey
'
s Press having
nothing
to do with her husband, Annabelle asked baldly, "How much do you need to get by on? And I
'
m talking the bare minimum, mind you.
"

"I beg your pardon?
"

Mrs. Dobie was not generally so obtuse. Striving for a patient tone, Annabelle persisted, "If you forgo your half-yearly checks for the next two years or so, I can almost promise that you
'
ll be making double what you
'
re earning now once they resume.
"

In quick succession the emotions of surprise, amusement, and finally consternation chased themselves across the older woman
'
s plump face. Hesitantly, she offered, "Lord Dalmar
did
tell you about our arrangement?
"

Frowning, Annabelle demanded, "What arrangement?
"

"My dear, I sold him my interest in Bailey
'
s
…
oh
…
weeks ago.
"

If a brick wall had fallen on Annabelle, she could not have felt more stunned. Though her first impulse was to vehemently deny the truth of Mrs. Dobie
'
s statement, everything suddenly
came into focus with blinding clarity. Dalmar
'
s interest in Bailey
'
s was instantly explained. It was no sham! Nor was it to gratify any whim of hers that he had delved into every facet of her business. He
'
d made himself at home in her office, was on a first-name basis with all her employees, and had picked her brains unmercifully till he knew everything there was to know about the day-to-day operation of what he always teasingly referred to as her
"
little empire.
"

From the very outset, it had been
her
company that he was determined to buy into. No wonder he
'
d been so closemouthed about his plans. And like an idiot, she had taken the viper to her bosom.

Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she managed in a creditably calm voice, "You and I had an understanding, Mrs. Dobie. I was to be given first refusal if ever you decided to sell.
"

The lady
'
s answer did not surprise Annabelle. She could almost picture the scene: Lord Dalmar, oozing charm as only he could, persuading the lady, in spite of her scruples, that since he was Annabelle
'
s intended, there could be no disloyalty in selling to him. And Mrs. Dobie, as Annabelle well knew, had never put much credence in the stability of a mere publishing house. No doubt her capital was now safely deposited in the impregnable vaults of the Bank of England.

Whatever her thoughts, Annabelle managed finally to breeze out of the house as if the intelligence of her
fiancé
'
s
duplicity had been a rare joke. In the confines of her carriage she was not so sanguine.

Fury, hot and heedless, ripped through Annabelle. At all her pulse points, her blood beat out a tattoo in double quick time. Her skin grew cold and hot by turns. She knew that her thoughts were spinning off in every direction and that if she made the attempt to speak, her words would be completely incomprehensible. She was shaking like a leaf. She curled herself into a ball and touched her trembling fingers to her brow to stop the dizziness. Think
…
she must think.

Dalmar had stolen a march on her. She
'
d been duped, hoodwinked, lulled into trusting him. She swore that she
would never trust him again. Like a fool, she had bragged of Bailey
'
s potential, flaunted her successes, revealed secrets she had no business revealing. With almost laughable naivety, she had even given him advice—she, the lamb, trying to teach the lion how to be a predator! How he must have laughed at her! He would never laugh at her again.

Blindly she stared out the carriage window, seeing nothing. Dalmar was now her partner, and she did not think for a minute that he would be willing to assume the role which Mrs. Dobie had assumed. The man would be into everything, questioning her decisions, usurping her authority. Only one hand could be at the helm.
She
was the one who had earned the right to steer the ship. It was
her
business acumen which had turned Bailey
'
s from its rocky course,
her
intuitive grasp of markets and trends which had propelled Bailey
'
s into the forefront of the publishing world. Nothing would make her relinquish her place to an underhanded, unethical, unprincipled scoundrel! Nothing!

Try as she might, she could not fathom his game. The man was an aristocrat, a peer of the realm. His proper place was at Court, or managing his estates, or in politics. Unlike Lord Stanhope, few noblemen showed the slightest inclination to soil their hands in anything that resembled trade. They had turned their backs on the merchant classes, where, if truth were told, many of them could trace their origins. But then, Dalmar would never fit any preconceived mold. After seventeen years in His Majesty
'
s Service, perhaps the quiet life of a gentleman seemed too tame by half for him. Then let him try his hand at gaming, or horse racing, or anything else, for that matter. She was sure she did not care. Just so long as he kept out of
her
domain.

She felt like such an idiot! And she had no one to blame but herself. She
'
d broken one of her own ca
rdinal rules—never to make the s
ame mistake twice. She
'
d listened to one man and had been robbed of her chance of having children. She
'
d listened to Dalmar and he had practically stolen her baby from under her nose. Bailey
'
s! She loved it with more passion than she could ever feel for a mere mortal man. Next to her son,
Bailey
'
s was everything to her.

It was some time before she realized that her cheeks were wet with tears. She groped for her handkerchief and dabbed at them furiously. That a man should reduce her to such straits! Intolerable! But then, Dalmar wasn
'
t just any man. He was a devil! He
'
d managed to cozen every member of her household, every servant, every employee, till he had them all eating out of his hand. Damn it! He had
her
eating out of his hand! It wasn
'
t just Bailey
'
s. It was personal. He
'
d stirred longings, dreams, feelings about herself as a woman that she had long since repressed. After Edgar, she
'
d never put her trust in anyone, not really. Oh, the world viewed her a gregarious butterfly, but in reality she never allowed herself to get too close to anyone. Even with Bertie there was a natural reserve. But Dalmar had breezed into her life, and she had suddenly begun to trust again, see other possibilities for her life. More than anything, she had wanted him for a
friend. Liar,
a little voice whispered inside her head.
You wanted him for your lover, the father of your children. You wanted his love.

"I am
not
in love with him,
"
she cried aloud, and slammed her reticule into the opposite seat of her coach.

Humiliation, betrayal, rage—she nursed her grievances as she made several stops before her coachman finally delivered her to Cavendish Square. She had promised the Earl that she would oversee the preparations for the ball where the announcement of their engagement was to be made public. Though every nerve in her body screamed at her to vent her spleen on her tormentor, Annabelle was too experienced an opponent to show her hand in a moment of weakness. She had weathered a few storms in her time. Nothing was to be gained by throwing a child
'
s temper tantrum. Lion he might be, but she was resolved that by the time she had finished with him, Lord Dalmar would know that he had tangled with a tigress.