Loving Lizzie Finn

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

B oston, September 1871

Desperation could make a man do foolhardy things—Byron held in a groan and slid open another desk drawer—things such as getting drunk then sneaking into another man’s house and rifling through his possessions.

He held the candle closer and flipped through the pages inside the drawer, blinking a few times until the writing on the parchment stopped moving. Personal correspondence and a few maps. Blast! Then again, had he really believed he could slip into Eldon Teague’s study and, within minutes, find precisely the right evidence he needed to prove the man’s guilt? Nothing was that easy, at least not for him. To hell with Eldon Teague and his damned double-dealings.

He shut the drawer and tried another. Invoices, insurance papers … His pulse leaped. Byron set the candlestick on the desk and snatched a leather-bound book from the depths of the drawer. Opening it, his hopes plummeted. An appointment book, and an old one at that.

A gasp from the doorway jerked his attention from the book. Two young, redheaded women in identical dressing gowns slapped a hand over their mouths. He blinked. No, not two women, just one.

He rocked on his feet as a chill washed over him. Her stare measured him as he stood with Eldon Teague’s appointment book still in his hands.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in Uncle Eldon’s study?” she demanded.

He slipped the book back into the desk and shut the drawer. “I’m here on business,” he slurred.

Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Business? At half past one in the morning?”

In the glow of the candle, the woman was a vision with fiery red hair hanging down to her waist, the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and alluring features that only existed on canvas. And her voice … smooth and sensual even when making angry demands. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. He’d heard of love at first sight, but he’d never believed in it, until now. Something about her ensnared all his senses, and he suddenly knew with certainty that she was the woman he’d waited his entire life for.

She frowned. “Are you going to answer me?”

Indeed. She’d asked a question … or three. “I’m not a thief, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Now why would I think that?” she asked, the sarcasm heavy in her tone.

He shrugged, the movement making him teeter for a moment. “If I’d been intent on stealing, I would have lined my pockets already.”

“How do I know you haven’t?”

Opening the front of his jacket, Byron took a step toward her. “You can check for yourself.” How he wished she would just so he could be closer to her.

She backed away. “Stay where you are,” she warned.

“Very well.” Byron gestured around the room, holding onto the desk chair for support. “Notice I’ve touched nothing of value. Not the silver candlestick over there”—he pointed to the bookshelves that lined the wall—“the first edition volumes, nor the fine humidor on this desk.”

“What are you looking for then?”

He raised a clumsy finger to his lips. “A secret ledger.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Cursing beneath his breath, he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She stepped to the side as if to give him room. “Go home. You’re drunk.”

Heaving a sigh, Byron made no move to follow her directive. “Please don’t tell your uncle I was here.”

“I make no promises. Now, if you will.” She waved her hand toward the door. Her movements were graceful, mesmerizing.

Byron rubbed his forehead to clear his thoughts. He’d made a mess of things. He shouldn’t have come here. He shouldn’t have gulped down that bottle of rum. “You don’t understand.” Maybe if he explained, she would keep his secret. “Your uncle has hoodwinked me. H-he changed our loan agreement after it was already signed, making the amount I’m expected to pay almost double of what it was. The agreement is due in only two months.”

“My uncle is an honorable man. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

Sudden exhaustion swamped him, and Byron sank into the desk chair. “I don’t know why he forged the agreement. Why now? Why my business?”

Byron studied the beauty in the doorway. Her demure nightclothes gave her an aura of innocence. His angel. “I’ll lose my family’s business.” Only three months ago, he’d taken over the running of Greeley & Company from his ailing father. “My family, my employees … They’re all counting on me, and I’m failing them.”

Sympathy softened her gaze. “I’m sorry you’re going through a difficult time, but you must be mistaken. My uncle runs his bank fairly. I’m sure if you spoke with him calmly when you’re sober …”

Dropping his head into his hands, Byron groaned. “I have spoken with him, repeatedly. He insists the agreement hasn’t changed from what my father signed four months ago.”

“Can’t you bring your copy to the bank as reference?”

He huffed a half laugh. “If only I could. My copy was stolen.” He could still feel the astonishment and horror of finding the safe in his office wide open. The only thing missing had been the document issued from the bank for his father’s discount loan.

“I suppose you believe my uncle had a hand in that as well? Burglary as well as fraud?”

Indeed. Why should she believe him—a drunken thief?

Soft footsteps approached, and a gentle hand touched his arm. “Again, I’m sorry, but you must go home.”

Of course, she was right. He’d best go. With the angel standing vigil, he wouldn’t be able to carry on his search anyway. Unsteadily, he rose from the chair. “Pardon me, miss, for disturbing you.”

She took up the candle and followed him until he stood outside in the chilly mid-September air. If only he had someone like her on his side, someone who would help him find the proof he needed. With that thought foremost in his mind, he walked home alone.

Tired from a night of little sleep, Lizzie stifled a yawn as Emma, her maid, fastened the crinolette around her waist. After the freedom of her bedclothes, she dreaded the confinement of the caged structure that protruded in back from her waist to the floor, preventing her from taking a decent step.

“The rose gown today?” Emma asked as she headed to the wardrobe.

“Whichever you think best.” Really what did it matter which dress she chose? She had nowhere to go and no one to see. Besides, other than color, all her gowns were largely the same. They were designed for optimum modesty, with full-length sleeves and high necks. All the better to save her from her true lascivious nature.

A smile on her face, Emma picked a gown from the lot. “Oh, how I love the rose. It brings out the pink in your cheeks.”

“If you love it so much, perhaps I should give it to you.” Lizzie glanced at the stark uniform Emma wore, a black dress with a starched white apron, white cuffs, and white collar. Emma, a petite blonde, was about Lizzie’s size and age. The rose gown would look lovely on her, much better than what Emma wore now, not that she could wear anything but a uniform in the house.

Shaking her head, Emma brought the dress over. “Pshaw. This gown is no castoff to be given away. It’s newly made just for you.” She lifted the decorative petticoat to slip it over Lizzie’s head.

Lizzie pushed the garment away. “I insist. You like it much more than I do. Take it and bring me the green.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open.

“Go on now,” Lizzie urged. “The green suits me far better.”

A spring in her step, Emma placed the rose gown on the bed and returned to the wardrobe. “I saw the most handsome man last night.”

Lizzie’s pulse leaped. “You did?” Had Emma seen the drunken stranger in Uncle’s study? The handsome intruder had occupied Lizzie’s thoughts all night long.

“Of course I did. He is a sight for sore eyes.” Emma returned with the green skirt and carefully lowed it over Lizzie’s head. “Dark eyes, almost black in color, with a gaze so intense he nearly stole my breath.”

Yes. Exactly. As much as she’d tried, she couldn’t get the memory of those eyes out of her head.

Emma secured the skirt and grabbed the bodice. “And his hair, the same as his eyes, black as night.”

Slipping her arms into the sleeves, Lizzie disagreed, “I would hardly call it black, more a dark brown, the color of chestnuts. Which suits him quite well.” With strong, bold features, and a lean frame … She smiled a little when she thought of him. A handsome devil to be sure.

Emma came around to face Lizzie and began to button the gown’s front. “No. I’m quite sure Felix has darker hair than that.”

“Felix?” Had that been his name?

“Yes, our new footman.”

Footman? Lizzie’s cheeks flamed, and her smile dissipated. The man she’d met last night was no footman. He’d spoken of running his family’s business. How embarrassing to be caught admiring a complete stranger. What was wrong with her?

Emma’s brow furrowed. “If not Felix, who were you speaking of?”

“No one,” Lizzie quickly answered. “I thought you were referring to someone else, that’s all.” Her gown fastened, Lizzie stepped toward the door. “Thank you, Emma.”

“My pleasure, miss.”

“Lizzie. Call me Lizzie,” she reminded her. Not that Emma would ever call her by her given name. Addressing a member of the family in such an informal way was never done, and rightly so. If caught by Lizzie’s aunt, Emma would be severely reprimanded. Still, behind closed doors, what did it hurt?

As far as she was concerned, she’d rather think of Emma as a friend than a servant. She had a shortage of friends.

Lizzie made her way down the stairs to the dining room and found her uncle already at breakfast with a newspaper in his hands. He glanced at the doorway as she walked through and lowered his paper, his usual stern countenance softening into a smile. “Lizzie, how did you sleep?”

Aunt Margaret sat at the other end of the long table, her spine rigid and her chin held high. Her only acknowledgement of Lizzie’s presence was the slight frown that tugged at her lips. Those lips and blue eyes were the same as Lizzie’s mother’s, as much as her aunt would hate to admit. Which was just as well. The similarities most certainly ended there, both in personality and appearance. Aunt Margaret’s dark locks matched Lizzie’s grandfather’s, or so she’d been told as she’d never met the man who’d passed away several year ago.

Lizzie took a plate and surveyed the breakfast fare laid out on the sideboard, the savory scents making her mouth water. “Not as well as I would have liked.”

“Bad dreams?” her uncle asked.

Their drunken intruder came to mind once more. He’d had such a forlorn look on his face. She chose an assortment of fried potatoes, boiled eggs, and hotcakes, then took the seat nearest to her uncle.

Maybe she should keep their late-night visitor a secret. Uncle Eldon continued to stare, expecting an answer, although he didn’t push. He never pushed. These past five years, since her mother died and she’d come to live with her uncle and aunt, he’d treated her well, better than well, almost like she were his own daughter. She owed him her allegiance. “I-I came across an intruder last night.”

“You what?” Uncle Eldon half rose from his chair. “Where?”

Her aunt huffed out a breath, but Lizzie ignored her. “In your study, but I sent him on his way, and that was that.” She poked at her food with a fork.

“My study? What was he doing there? Why didn’t you call out?” he demanded.

“He was drunk, and I had the situation in hand.” She’d dealt with far worse. Until the age of fourteen, she’d lived in a brothel for God’s sake—although not as a prostitute, her mother had seen to that.

“Are you really so surprised?” Aunt Margaret tossed her napkin onto the table. “Any self-respecting girl would have raised an alarm at the sight of a thief. Not Lizzie. She attempts to remove the man, all alone, in the middle of the night. Her upbringing has ruined her. She has the manners of a—”

“Margaret,” Uncle Eldon warned. Still, as if her uncle’s train of thought matched that of her aunt’s, sadness stole over his features, and he sank back into his seat. “We should notify the police.”

Anger simmered. Her aunt never failed to provoke her ire. “I didn’t attempt to remove the intruder. I did remove him. As for calling the police, I don’t believe he took anything. He was looking for something in particular and never found it.”

Uncle Eldon’s expression turned to one of confusion. “What would that be?”

“A ledger of some sort.” Lizzie shook her head, remembering what the stranger had claimed. “He was talking nonsense, something about how you forged a loan agreement.”

“Rubbish,” her uncle growled.

Exactly as she’d thought. Her uncle would never do such a thing.

Her uncle drummed his fingers on the table. “Byron Greeley. He’s the man who was here. I’m sure of it.”

At Lizzie’s confused stare, he muttered, “He complained about his loan agreement at the bank recently.” Uncle Eldon made a move to stand once again. “I’ll send word of this to the police.”

Lizzie stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please don’t.”

Her uncle’s brows arched. “Whyever not?”

She couldn’t say for sure, and yet, she felt compelled to protect Mr. Greeley. Perhaps because he’d been so sure in his accusations. Or maybe because he’d worried about his family and employees. He’d shown such sorrow and regret. “He had too much to drink and wasn’t thinking clearly.”

When her uncle’s look of determination didn’t lessen, she squeezed his arm. “Besides, I don’t wish to speak to the police. I’m tired, and I’d rather not discuss the matter anymore. Please, for me, let this go.”

Her aunt rose from her seat. Her glare focused squarely on Lizzie. “Now she’s defending the man, a thief, a trespasser. If this doesn’t convince you, nothing will.”

“Convince me of what, dearest?” Uncle Eldon asked on a weary sigh.

Her aunt crossed the room to stand at Uncle Eldon’s side. “It’s time Lizzie found a husband, someone who can take her in hand.”

Lizzie stiffened, and an icy shiver raced through her. She never wanted to marry, although that request had fallen on deaf ears long ago.

Her uncle turned to his wife. “Let’s not be hasty.”

Yes. Let’s not be hasty, indeed.

“She’s of marriageable age,” Aunt Margaret scoffed. “Don’t you want her to marry and have children some day?”

Her uncle nodded. “Yes, of course, but that can wait.”

“Wait for what? For the day she behaves so outrageously no man will have her?” Aunt Margaret’s gaze softened as she looked into his eyes. “This is what’s best for her.”

A look of resignation began to form on Uncle Eldon’s face.

Lizzie stood, almost knocking her chair over in her haste. “No! This is not what’s best for me.” She focused her efforts on her uncle, the one who cared what she thought. “I don’t want to marry, now or ever.” She’d vowed long ago that she would never end up like her mother, who’d been duped by her husband.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Lizzie,” Uncle Eldon responded. “A full life includes having a family of your own.”

Not if she could find a way to be independent. “But I—”

“I already have someone in mind.” Her aunt brightened. “I’ll arrange for our families to meet to discuss a match.”

“Who are you thinking of?” Uncle Eldon asked.

“Henry Albers.”

“Henry Albers?” Uncle Eldon rubbed the bridge of his nose as if thinking. “Their older boy?”

Aunt Margaret shook her head. “Their second son, the preacher.”

Lizzie barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Of course her aunt would choose a preacher for her. Then she could tell all her friends how she’d done her utmost to save the soul of her soiled niece. Lizzie cast a look of distress at her uncle. He was her only ally.

He took in Lizzie’s expression, and his lips twitched slightly. “There’s no reason to rush into this. Why don’t we let Lizzie choose a suitor? We can host a ball.”

Lizzie slid a glance at the woman who had always refused to let Lizzie have a Season. How badly did she want to marry Lizzie off? Enough to go back on her word and let Lizzie step out into society? With any luck, she wouldn’t have to endure a ball or a meeting with a suitor.

“A ball is costly,” her aunt groused.

“I think we can afford the expense,” Uncle Eldon assured her.

Aunt Margaret frowned. “The effort will be substantial.”

“You’ve planned events like this before,” he reminded her.

Her aunt had indeed held events for Uncle’s business associates, but never one for matchmaking. There had been no need since she and Uncle were childless.

Aunt Margaret’s lips pursed for a moment. “Fine then. We’ll hold a ball and invite acceptable suitors. Although we need not be choosy. Not many respectable men will accept a girl with Lizzie’s background.”

Yes, everyone knew Lizzie’s mother had worked in a brothel and that Lizzie had been born there. Aunt Margaret basked in the sympathy and admiration she received from her friends whenever she bemoaned the demands of raising her sister’s tainted daughter. Her aunt always embellished the situation, telling everyone that Lizzie’s mother had been a prostitute. That hadn’t been the case, and Lizzie had corrected Aunt Margaret several times to no avail. She and her mother had been servants at Maude’s House, nothing more. Even as that thought ran through her mind, old nagging doubts attempted to intrude. As usual, she pushed them away.

“I’ll begin planning the ball right after my meeting this morning.” Her aunt gave Uncle Eldon’s shoulder a pat. “Speaking of which, I must be off.” With a swish of her skirts, Aunt Margaret swept out the door. She was off to meet with her own personal Female Moral Reform Society club, a small group of highborn ladies who felt it their duty to speak out against prostitution and the men who frequented brothels. She’d formed the group shortly after Lizzie came to live in this house. Many would say her work with the group was an act of charity in memory of her sister. Lizzie knew better.

Whenever her aunt spoke of her pet cause, Uncle Eldon’s lips tightened. He picked up his newspaper and scanned the page. “Assuming nothing is missing in my study, I’ll forgo contacting the authorities about our trespasser.”

Lizzie peered down at the food on her plate, her appetite gone. Dread for the coming festivities made her stomach queasy. Instead of returning to her seat, she headed for the door. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Today she would resume her search for employment. But where? All businesses and homes within walking distance had already rejected her. Her aunt’s gossip had reached them all. Lizzie climbed the stairs, her resolve firm. She would visit them again, walk farther, look harder, whatever it took. She would succeed, and someday she would be out from beneath Aunt Margaret’s thumb. No husband required.