A Lady Most Lovely (13 page)

What the note did not contain was the verbal commitment Tom had required from her before signing it. Tom told her his sister would send over a dinner invitation, and Margaret had agreed to accept it. She was surprised at the trepidation this gave her. It was only dinner, after all. Surely he was not trying to woo her. He would not be renewing his offer of marriage. Margaret was sure of this; the expression on his face right after he proposed spoke plainly enough. He didn’t want to be married any more than she did. She ought to be relieved about this—not feeling something so foolish as disappointment.

It’s just one evening,
she told herself.
Nothing more.
She went upstairs to freshen up before luncheon. She poured water into a basin and splashed it onto her face, allowing its coolness to rejuvenate her thoughts as she considered what she should do next. Without a doubt, the most important thing was to return to Lincolnshire and retrench. Every day she remained here, the town house bled away money she didn’t have. The season was nearly over anyway, and with her wedding canceled Margaret was painfully aware that she no longer had any real reason to be in London.

Margaret went to the window and looked out over the little park. A refreshing breeze played along her damp face as she considered the man who lived on the other side of that square. She could not think what to make of him. Tom Poole did not fit into any mold. His accent and certain aspects of his conduct betrayed his working-class
origins, but he was neither coarse nor ignorant. Far from it. He was a clever man who could walk into unknown surroundings and quickly grasp what was expected of him. More troubling, perhaps, was how swiftly he had penetrated her defenses and laid bare her weaknesses.

Margaret turned from the window. She could not afford to spend time reflecting on Tom Poole or anyone else. Their arrangement had made him a temporary benefactor of sorts. But he would never be anything more. She would never give up her self-reliance.

It was with a bittersweet sense of pride that she went to the dining room to take her soup and cold meat alone. Perhaps when she was out of debt she might be able to take a bigger house in Belgravia and host her own soirees. But always,
always,
she would be in control, living within her means. Any other path was for those who were weak or foolish. And she, Margaret thought with grim satisfaction, was neither. She was going to be free from the manacle of her debts and never again be beholden to any man. Certainly not the tall, persuasive, and unsettling stranger from Australia.

*

Tom and Mortimer walked out of the Bank of London and onto the busy sidewalk. The hansom was still there, the cabbie chatting with another driver as they waited for their fares to conclude their business.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Mortimer said, shaking Tom’s hand. Before he let go, he added, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Tom tried to give him a wry smile, which was probably more of a grimace. “What do you care?”

Mortimer nodded in agreement. “Indeed.” He briefly patted his coat pocket, in which was the deed of transfer between Tom’s account and his own. “I trust, sir, that if you are ever in need of funds, you will feel free to contact me.”

“So you can loan my money back to me with interest? I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mortimer’s eyes showed a hint of amusement. He entered the carriage. “Shall I drop you somewhere?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

Tom watched as the cab lurched into the traffic and was soon lost in the busy thoroughfare. Then he turned and began to walk back toward Mayfair. He walked slowly, barely taking heed of the bustle around him. Mortimer’s question still echoed in his ears. Of course, the man had only asked it
after
the money had been safely and irrevocably transferred. Mortimer was not the sort to allow any scruples to interfere with a profitable transaction.

Even though he had just parted with an alarming sum of money, Tom had no regrets. As he reflected on the morning’s events, a new thought struck him. If the rain hadn’t caused him to leave Hyde Park early, he’d never have seen the moneylenders forcing their way into Margaret’s house. He’d never have known there was a serious problem at number 15. Had that somehow been the work of the Lord? Tom was too new a Christian to know for sure. And yet, it was a fact that his prayer had been immediately followed by the rain. Perhaps the Lord worked in odd ways indeed. Did that also mean he had some plan for Margaret? If so, Tom thought wryly, the
Lord was going to have to work mighty hard to get that woman’s attention.

“Poole!”

The voice stopped Tom in midstep. He turned to see Denault standing at the door of a tavern. Fighting the urge to pound the man senseless for what he’d done to Margaret, he stood stock-still and gave Denault a cold glare. “What do you want?”

He could tell from Denault’s demeanor that his hostility hadn’t gone unnoticed. But Denault must have decided to ignore it. He motioned toward the tavern. “I was hoping you’d have time for a drink.”

Tom would have declined, but he wanted to find out what kind of explanation Denault would give for the broken engagement. Denault was likely to hound him more about the railway, too, but nothing he could do or say would get Tom to buy in now.

Denault took a seat behind his half-eaten lunch and a tankard of ale. Tom grabbed the chair opposite and sat down as the barmaid sauntered up. “What’ll you have, sir?”

Tom gestured to the ale in front of Paul. “The same.”

“Anything to eat?”

In truth, Tom was hungry. The tantalizing aroma of roasting meat wafted out from the back kitchen, and Tom’s stomach growled in protest. But Lizzie was expecting him for luncheon. He shook his head. “Just the ale.”

“Right then—the poor man’s lunch today,” the barmaid said, throwing him a disparaging look before going off to fetch his drink.

Tom pulled out his watch and checked the time. “I can’t stay long,” he told Denault.

“Well, then, let’s get right to it,” Denault said cheerfully. “At our last meeting, you said you wanted to take some time to consider the company’s prospectus. I assume you’ve done so?”

“I heard the wedding between you and Miss Vaughn was called off,” Tom said.

At first this abrupt change of subject took Denault off guard. Then he laughed—a dry, bitter sound. “You and everyone else in London.”

“Care to enlighten me as to why?”

“Well, just between us…” Denault pushed his plate aside and leaned forward, speaking with an air of confidentiality. “It was a mutual decision, and entirely amicable. It should not be taken to reflect badly on Miss Vaughn.”

Tom snorted. He couldn’t help it. “How does it reflect on
you?
”

Denault waved that question away. “Poole, you’re a man of sense. You should know that what does or does not take place on London’s social calendar has no bearing on the business at hand. Let’s talk about the Saint Louis and Western, shall we? Are you with us? The banks are still open. I suggest we go there today.”

Tom might have laughed at the man’s gall, if he wasn’t so appalled. “Can you really dismiss a wedding to Miss Vaughn as a mere hiccup on the social calendar?”

“I don’t see why it should concern you,” Denault countered. A gleam came to his eye. “Unless you have some
particular
interest in Miss Vaughn. Some connection perhaps?”

Tom refused to rise to the bait. There were better ways to fight back. So he said in a deliberately offhand
manner, “As for the railway, I regret that I’m not in a position to invest in it just now. Something has arisen that requires the use of my funds elsewhere.” Tom had learned all the right business jargon from Sullivan, and he took a malicious pleasure in spouting it to a dealmaker like Denault. “It’s a long-term project, which, although risky, might yield appealing dividends.” Tom pushed back from the table and stood up to signal that the conversation was over.

Denault quickly rose and stepped in Tom’s path. “Has that little charmer been spreading lies about me? She was supposed to keep her mouth shut. We agreed—”

Tom took hold of him and pushed him against the wall. “Agreed to what?”

Denault made no move to get away. “Perhaps I ought to warn you about something, my friend,” he said caustically. “Margaret is drowning in debt. You’re a fool if you think she wants anything but your money.”

“What Margaret does is no longer your affair. Nor do I need your advice.” With one more shove, Tom dropped his hold on Denault and stalked to the door.

Behind him, Denault shouted, “You’ll regret this, Poole!”

As Tom turned his head to throw back a scathing reply, he bumped into another man who was walking in his direction. The man was tall and about as broad as the door. No wonder Tom had run into him.

He shoved Tom aside with a rude, “Watch where you’re going,” and pushed past.

Tom was sorely tempted to give the man a taste of his fist.
Just let it go,
he told himself.
It’s not worth a fight.

It was only after Tom was outside that he realized the other man had been heading in the direction of Denault’s table. Was this another potential investor? It would serve him right if he was, Tom thought. Let Denault fleece whomever he could; Tom was glad to stay out of it. And yet the stranger had seemed vaguely familiar. Probably one of the dozens of pompous idiots he’d been introduced to. Tom hadn’t gotten a good enough look at the man’s face to be sure.

Tom shrugged it off, resuming his walk back up the broad avenue toward Mayfair. He was glad he’d had an opportunity to close out his dealings with Denault. Now he could concentrate on Margaret—and in truth, he did not want his thoughts anywhere else. He and Margaret were bound now—by the loan, at least. But Tom wanted more. He knew that now. His impulsive proposal had been a shock to them both, and yet Tom knew it had been taking root in his soul from the moment she’d raced him down the green at Hyde Park. Probably even sooner than that.

He picked up his pace, nimbly dodging the carts, vendors, and street sweepers as he went. A strange joy surged through him. He had the sense that all the upheavals of the past few years had been nothing compared to the way his life was about to change.

Lord,
he thought,
if this is Your will, lead me on.

He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next.

G
ood evening, Miss Vaughn.”

Tom Poole must have been practicing the bow; Margaret was certain the formality did not come naturally to him. It was without a doubt an entirely different entrance than he had made yesterday, when he had thrown the door open and filled the room with his presence, looking ready to take on all comers like a boxer in a ring.

Everything about him was more reserved tonight. Gone were the disheveled riding costume and muddy boots. Now he wore a stiff black suit and an expertly knotted cravat, looking every inch the gentleman as he held his top hat in his gloved hands. An odd thought strayed across her mind, that somehow he looked more handsome in his rumpled brown riding coat. Odd, too, that she should find him handsome at all, but he was—in a rugged sort of way. Normally, she would never give such a man a second glance. But he had deliberately placed himself into her life. Even now he caused
competing thoughts of gratitude and resentment to wrestle within her, combining to form some other emotion she had no name for.

He offered up his arm to escort her outside, and a tiny, alarming sensation raced across her stomach as she laid her hand on his arm. She was not—could not be—attracted to this man. When the debt was paid, they would go their separate ways. It was a hope she clung to. Her finances, and by extension her reputation and social standing, were precariously dependent on this virtual stranger. She was desperate to regain a firm hold on her own life.

He led her out to the steps of the town house. “Where is your carriage?” she asked, seeing none waiting in the street.

“Carriage?” Tom said, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yes,” Margaret said. “Surely you don’t expect us to walk across the park?”

He did, it seemed. “Why, I never thought we’d need a carriage. A child could throw a rock and hit the Somervilles’ house from here.”

“Really, Mr. Poole. It’s most impolite to expect a lady to walk across mud and grass in her evening clothes.” She may be in debt, but she still had her dignity. “I shall go back inside and order a carriage.”

“It is only a very short way,” he insisted, stepping between her and the door. “It seemed unnecessary to go through all the trouble of hitching up the horses and bringing them out just to ride around the square.”

“You really don’t see the impropriety in escorting me on foot, do you?” she said.

“You’re right,” he returned crustily, not sounding the
least bit apologetic. “Clearly I don’t know enough about the ‘proper’ way to do things. Because of this gap in my knowledge, I’ve had to fall back on common sense instead.”