Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Trapped in the drawing room with her father and Mr. Finch, Annabelle bit her tongue so that she would not weep.
Scarcely two weeks since Lizzie had left and already, Papa looked to marry her off too.
Though if she earned enough balancing Mr. Harris’s books while pawning more trinkets from the house, perhaps she’d reach the fifty pounds she needed to play his tables.
Not perhaps, must. She would amass that coin, by hook or crook, because Mr. Harris had, in his own way, bolstered her hope. Rude at points, especially when he’d escorted her that first day out of The Gilded Leaf straight into a waiting hansom, but at least he employed her now for pay.
Besides, his all-too-wanton perusal of her person had felt quite different from Mr. Finch’s rank stares.
In truth, Mr. Harris’s twinkling eyes had made Annabelle’s insides flip.
His hair was mostly flaxen, his skin a soft-bronzed hue, and his lips terribly inviting—not to mention the way his long legs had leaned rakishly against his desk.
Annabelle curbed her unwholesome thoughts.
Mr. Harris was her employer, not some dandy to swoon over.
He’d been thrilled she’d reconciled his books in half the time his usual bookkeeper took.
He’d soon see she was a ‘boon to business,’ and then he might let her gamble at his tables and split the profits like she’d offered.
With just a bit more effort, Annabelle was certain she could win Mr. Harris over.
The problem was, time was not on her side.
“You’ve a letter, miss.” Papa’s ill-mannered footman barged in, rudely shoving the note at Annabelle in front of her father and Mr. Finch. The two looked expectantly at her as she cracked open the thick seal.
The Earl and Countess of Denbigh cordially request the honor of your company at a ball in celebration of the coming out of their granddaughter, Miss Mercy Pendrake, this Sunday, nine o’clock, 8 Coventry Street.
“Bella, do not keep us in suspense,” her father urged.
Suspense. As if he hadn’t kept her and Lizzie in suspense all their lives…
“We have been invited to the Denbigh ball this Sunday, Papa.” She was thrilled she might attend a ball, at last!
“It is surely Lizzie’s doing, as the Duchess of Allendale is the Earl of Denbigh’s granddaughter, whose husband, the Duke, is a friend to Lizzie’s husband, the Baron. May we go, Papa, please?”
“Why, of course we must go.” Her father beamed. “And Mr. Finch may escort you.”
Annabelle froze. “Father,” she dopped her voice, “his name is not on the invitation.”
“Then we shall procure him one. Write to Lizzie to request she do so.”
“But Father, one cannot simply demand an—”
“Nonsense.” He glanced nervously at Finch, whose tongue clicked that awful tooth back and forth between his hairy, hanging jowls.
Annabelle’s hopes plummeted; she felt she might be sick.
“Miss, you’ve another caller.” The incorrigible footman barged in again, this time with a vase of blooms.
“Bearing flowers?” Papa stood from his chair, demanding, “What card was left?”
The footman handed him the card—while slyly slipping Bella a separate note—all while Mr. Finch scowled at the vase of red ranunculus.
“Ah.” Her father looked suddenly nervous. “Mr. Finch, good sir, I am afraid we must bid you farewell as I have, er, business to attend to.” He began to show their visitor out. “I do hope you’ll call again tomorrow, sir. Don’t you, Bella?”
She quickly hid the note in her dress folds.
“Bella?” Papa insisted.
She looked up. “Oh, good day, Mr. Finch.” But already the man pressed wet lips to her knuckles. The moment he turned she wiped them on her skirts and furtively read the note.
Follow my lead. I will explain my reasons. —A. Harris
Annabelle’s heart soared. Was Mr. Harris as ‘dazzled by her charms’ as his bouquet announced? She crushed his note into her pocket while Papa ushered Mr. Finch out.
Seconds later, Mr. Harris walked in, both callers surely having passed one another in the hall.
In three strides, Mr. Harris warmly pressed his lips to her hand.
Dry lips, she thought. Dry and firm and…
“Mr. Harris.” She dropped into a curtsy.
***
Harris adjusted his waistcoat, because Miss Winthrop’s genuflect had just granted him direct view of the lady’s cleavage. He quietly cursed her beauty. Again.
“Harris.” Winthrop sounded put out. “To what do we owe this visit, sir?”
“Why, your daughter, milord. Since making her acquaintance at the Baron’s wedding, I’ve been able to think of nothing and no one else. I intend to court her.”
“C-court her?” Winthrop stuttered. “But she is not—Annabelle is not even—”
“Lord Winthrop, was that not Mr. Finch I just saw leave your house? Does he not court your daughter too?” It took everything in Harris’s being not to cuff this fool.
“I realize Miss Winthrop has not been formally presented in society, but good sir, a lady so charming, accomplished, and tenacious of spirit”—he winked at Annabelle, making her blush—“renders a man quite powerless to resist. I beg an audience with your daughter this very day.”
Winthrop fell speechless, as expected, his face turning a mottled maroon, veins pulsing at his temples. “I … That is …”
“Perhaps you are overcome by such declaration of sentiment, but I do not jest, sir. I am utterly enamored of your daughter and aim to woo her until she accepts.”
“Accepts?” Winthrop’s face mottled a shade darker.
Harris pulled Annabelle from her seat and tucked her arm in his. “A walk about the neighborhood for some fresh air is just the thing, don’t you agree, Miss Winthrop?” He prayed she’d play along.
“Oh yes, Mr. Harris. Indeed, I should love a walk.” She’d regained her composure quickly. “We won’t be long, Papa,” she told her father, who remained standing in the parlor in stunned confusion.
Harris quit the room with her as fast as his legs could take him—and before any chaperone should show up to interfere.
The moment they were outdoors, the lady coughed, ahem. “An explanation, Mr. Harris, is in order I believe?”
“Of course, Miss Winthrop. But first I must confirm: This Mr. Finch I just saw quit your house, is he the man you described courting you?”
“He is the reason I sought your help, sir.”
“Then I understand your situation, miss, and empathize all the more.”
“You know him?”
“Miss Winthrop, I—” He halted on the street, overcome. “We must do everything in our power to ensure you do not marry him.”
She stiffened on his arm. “Then he is worse than I imagine?”
“Annabelle, he is—” He swallowed. “Forgive me for being so familiar, miss, but Mr. Finch is—”
“Not at all, sir.” Her smile was radiant. “And you may call me Bella, as both my employer and, I now presume, my suitor.”
“And you may call me Arthur, Bella. But if your father is at all mixed up with Ronny Finch, his courtship does not bode well for you, or for your papa.”
“Which is why you have decided to court me too?” She arched one elegant eyebrow, making his knees weak. Damnation, Jasp!
Harris gathered his wits, fast. “Yes. More suitors create more competition for your hand, thereby demonstrating your worth.”
“But posing as my suitor does little to prevent my father marrying me off to someone else, someone worse, perhaps, than—”
“No one is worse than Finch, Bella. No one.” He prayed she wouldn’t ask why, because he didn’t want to have to tell her.
“Then I must win big, sir, at your tables, in order to free myself.” She met his eyes with fresh determination.
Harris scowled back.
“Please, Arthur, let me disguise myself and—”
“No.” He pulled her close, turning them about. “You will be that much more vulnerable.”
“But I will not lose!” She halted them there upon the street, nearly stomping her dainty foot in dismay. “You know I won’t lose, so why can’t I—”
Without thinking, Harris drew her to a dark doorway and pressed Miss Winthrop into the fibers of his coat. “Forgive me, Bella.” He spoke roughly into her hair. “But I’ll not ’ave you jumpin’ from fry pan into fire.”
Nor would her brother-in-law allow it. Harris reminded himself he was protecting this young woman for Jasper’s sake, not his own.
The moment Mr. Harris dropped her home, Papa interrogated Annabelle.
She, of course, gave him only the vaguest answers, pretending to still be his foolish little girl.
Because whatever her father’s connection to Mr. Finch, she now knew matters were worse than she’d assumed.
Mr. Harris had given her every reason to think that if Papa did not submit to Mr. Finch’s wishes, he’d pay a price beyond the mere financial.
She did not wish to know what that price would be.
Annabelle feared she’d need her sister’s help after all, just as soon as she determined how. Though she had Mr. Harris on her side at least. Well, almost. He still wouldn’t let her play his tables, but he was a better man than most to offer her his help.
And handsome. Lord help her, Arthur Harris had looked fine flashing her his singularly crooked grin. He smiled with his eyes too, emerald gems beneath that mop of gold hair.
Papa droned on. She must not start mooning over Mr. Harris. She was a lady of high morals, lacking only in funds. Substantial funds. She would require a great deal more cash than Mr. Harris was paying her to bookkeep, if she wished to free herself from Finch and future suitors.
The only way to do this, Annabelle slowly realized, was to beat both men at their game.
Indeed, she smiled to herself while Papa continued muttering and sputtering.
Perhaps she didn’t need Arthur Harris’s permission to play his tables.
Perhaps she merely needed fifty pounds to gain entry to his den.
And this she might accomplish with the help of her dear sister.
Annabelle’s smile spread. Tomorrow she’d pay Elizabeth a visit. She didn’t need Mr. Harris’s courtship or his wages. All she needed was collateral. Though when he’d held her in his arms in that secluded doorway, she’d not wanted the moment to end.