Chapter 1 #2
“Shall you come in for tea?” Theo asked when they reached her and Alistair’s London estate. “Rose is staying. She and Everett are joining us for dinner later. You might as well, too.”
“Thank you,” Ophelia said, leaning in to kiss Theo’s cheek first, then Rose’s, “Alas I already promised my time to my father this evening.”
At her own home, Ophelia was welcomed back by their family’s long-serving butler, Mr. Potter.
“New paints, I see Miss Wexley,” Mr. Potter said jovially as he took Ophelia’s basket.
He shook his head as he looked at her with pride.
“My, how far your talent has come, my lady,” he praised.
Ophelia smiled warmly. Out of all the men she’d ever met, Mr. Potter was the one of the few that did not vex her. He had always been there with a kind smile and quip of praise or positive remark.
“I believe you are the only one that believes so, Mr. Potter,” she said with a laugh. “Would you have Bea take these up to my rooms, please? And pray, where is my father?”
“He is waiting for you in the parlor, Miss Wexley,” Mr. Potter replied, accepting the basket of paint pots she offered to him, “And I will have Bea get these up to your quarters straightaway.”
Ophelia thanked him, and made her way past the grand staircase, down the vast hall, and to the right where the parlor was situated.
She found her father, John Wexley, the 52-year-old Viscount Whitebridge standing over the vast, heavy table littered with paperwork; looking most perplexed at the papers he held in his hands.
“Papa,” Ophelia sighed, her good mood dimming at the sight.
John’s light blue eyes shifted toward her as his thick gray eyebrows rose in apparent relief. His lithe body straightened from its stooped position, and he beckoned her over.
“Ollie girl. Thank goodness you have come back. I have tried to make sense of this nonsense all day and I’m about to reach my wit’s end. I just received these today.”
“Let me see,” Ophelia said, reaching her hand out as she closed the space between them.
At one time her father had been one of the sharpest minds of the London ton; accruing fortunes like no other- but then twenty years ago his soul mate, Ophelia’s mother, died- and he began to slip away little by little as if small parts of him were leaving to join her.
Now he had trouble making sense of most things, and as such, their financial security had slipped away just as those parts of him had.
John handed her the papers and disappeared through the doorway between his office and the parlor; no doubt bringing out more paperwork he’d received and forgotten to organize or respond to.
They had started the process of re-organizing his office a month ago, and it still a work in progress.
His lack of organization skills, though, was one only of the reasons why he had bleeding money the last few years.
Ophelia could help reorganize his office. She had even been able to help bring in the needed money to recoup some of their losses. What she couldn’t do, unfortunately, was help her father choose better investment partners. He had no gift for it anymore, and trusted far too easily.
“This is an invoice from your food market, stating that you are in collections,” Ophelia said, “I am putting it in the piles for mercantile bills.”
“They’re not going to deliver any more food?” John asked, his eyes wide with worry.
“Of course they will,” she hastily replied, “I will have Mr. Potter settle this for us this very afternoon. I have some funds left over from my last tutoring session. It should be enough to cover at least a third of the bill.”
She moved forward, not wanting her father to dwell on such a worry, and looked at the next letter.
“Ah, this is a notice from a Lord Whimsley. He says that your investment into Barnaby’s soaps has run out, and as a partner you need to send them an additional two-hundred pounds this month. I’ll put this in the investment pile.”
She put it down and sighed as she gave him an exhausted look.
“Soaps, Papa? You chose to invest in soaps?”
“Oh dear,” John muttered, slowly lowering the fresh stack of paperwork he’d just brought into the parlor. “Well Lord Whimsley was very convincing. He told me that they were doing very well in Italy. Only the highest ladies of the court use it.”
“Which means very few purchase it,” Ophelia sighed. “I believe this man duped you. You are probably bankrolling his entire venture! Let me see the contract.”
John’s thin lips twisted, accentuating his cheekbones as his eyes hopped from one pile to the next on the large table.
“It is here somewhere,” he muttered, scratching his head.
“Nevermind, I shall find it later,” Ophelia said, looking down at the third paper in her hand.
Her heart nearly stopped as she read it.
It was an invoice from one of their accounts at the Royal Bank of London- and the account was empty.
It was not the first, and Ophelia was sure it wasn’t going to be the last.
The urge to yell at her father rose up quick. How? How could he let this all happen to them? They’d been struggling secretly for years, yes, but they’d always managed to keep their heads above water until now!
“Oh, I know that look, Ollie girl,” John said, his tone despondent. “That is the ‘you are disappointed in me’ look. What does it say?”
Ophelia cleared her throat, suddenly feeling more exhausted than angry.
“We’ve zeroed out another account, Papa,” she explained, laying the paper on the banking statement pile.
She looked up at him, her green eyes imploring as she took his hands. He used to be so good at this; making money, keeping things straight. Would she ever get that version of her father back? The version that took care of her, and did not need her to take on so much responsibility?
“Oh, Ollie girl,” John sighed, raising her hands and kissing her knuckles. “I do not know what’s happened to me. I just need one good investment. Just one and our luck will turn, I know it!”
“I know,” she sighed. It was what he said every time they found themselves in a pickle- which now seemed almost weekly.
She pulled her hands gently from her father’s grasp and slowly started to circle the table, doing mental calculations in her head as she studied the mountains of paperwork.
They would need a small fortune to cover September’s bills, and from her work, she only had about a quarter of what they needed.
“What’s this?” She asked, picking up a face-down envelope.
“Hmm? Oh, I believe it’s from your agency. Perhaps they have another tutoring session available for you,” John replied.
Tutoring was the cover she’d chosen for her real job; which was painting.
It had taken years of hard work, but three years ago she had been deemed worthy to be a client for an art agency that served London’s most auspicious residents.
She had to disguise herself, of course, and painted under the moniker S.R; the mute painter.
She never spoke to anyone when she worked, unable to reach those deep tones to make herself sound like a man- which is what she disguised herself as.
Her silence and shabby men’s clothes often got her mocked by her clients, but she’d taken the verbal putdowns and harsh judgment in stride because the jobs paid well and had spared her and her father from eviction.
Ophelia flipped the envelope over, and her body nearly sagged with relief when she saw the red insignia at the top left corner. It had been a couple weeks since her agency had had work for her, and whatever offer was inside couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Yes, it would seem they do,” Ophelia agreed, tucking the letter under her arm, “I need to go to my rooms for a moment, Papa, but when I return we will continue to sort this out, then have some supper.”
She moved to leave, but her father caught her hand, stopping her. When she looked at him she bristled at the pure guilt glistening in his eyes. Unlike most women, she was not good at dealing with other’s emotions. She barely had enough patience with her own.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate the work you do for our family,” John rasped, sounding on the verge of tears.
“Papa, stop that,” she scolded, wresting her hand from is. “We are family. This is what we do.”
“Not most families,” John choked out. “Most fathers provide for their daughters, not the other way around.”
“I do not wish to be like other families,” she quickly replied. “You love me and accept me for who I am. I will take that over you forcing me into a marriage any day.”
“I will never force you,” John agreed hastily, a look of hesitation crossing his gaze, “However, if you did have a husband, Ollie girl, you would not have the burden of fixing my mistakes. You could have your own life free of my folly.”
“I do have my own life, Papa,” she insisted, “So stop this nonsense.”
Ophelia left before he could speak further on the subject or make himself more emotional.
She had burdens to bear yes, but she would bear them gladly as long as they gave her the freedom of being unmarried.
She’d rather work a thousand thankless jobs than be yoked to a man who did not value her for who she was.
In the privacy of her room, Ophelia ripped open the letter. She was expecting another project that would pay a hundred pounds or so, but as she read through the request, her eyes bulged. The offer was willing to pay one-thousand pounds!
Immediately she ran her eyes through the rest of letter, and got her second shock. This was not her average aristocratic client, she discovered, but certainly would be her most infamous one. The offer was signed not with the name of a person, but an establishment.
The Devil’s Masquerade
A crimson-red letter; the coveted invitation of the secret club, was enclosed within the letter from her agency. It detailed the requirements for accepting and when and where to meet the carriage that would take her to the secret location.
Ophelia slowly lowered the letter, her mind reeling with questions and thoughts.
She knew of the Devil’s Masquerade for two reasons.
One being that it had been the talk of London on and off for nearly three years.
There had been multiple attempts at finding the owner of the salacious relations club, and in fact Alistair and Everett had been accused of being such at one time.
Two was that even though they were not the owners, they were members. As were her dear friends Theo and Rose. Amelia and Dominic were as well.
She’d been told stories of the place, and while her friends had expressed happiness over the club, Ophelia had taken those stories as cautionary tales. They might like the club and that was fine. She held no judgment for them. Yet she herself had never wanted to visit.
Now though, as she held the offer in her hands- an offer that would help her family greatly- she found herself unable to say no.