Chapter Two
N ell awoke early, as always. She had her tea and toast, as always.
She dressed what Sabine set out for her that morning—a variation on half mourning that she’d worn for well over a decade.
Her wardrobe was full of grays, lavenders, and white.
It was plenty for Nell. After breaking her fast and dressing, she walked Hyde Park for exercise, her groom armed and trailing behind her as she marched along the Serpentine.
After her exercise, she returned home and sat down to work at her correspondence.
At three in the afternoon, Fatima would call upon her, then Chastity, and then Jane at quarter past. If it happened to be a day when she would be out, then she would call upon them instead.
She examined her finances before an early dinner, and if there was enough for a ticket to an opera or a musicale, she would go out.
She always went alone, with her groom, of course, behaving in the same manner that he did at Hyde Park: armed and trailing.
Nell preferred to go alone because she did not wish to be introduced to other people.
She did not want to be waved down by a friend of or relative of Fatima or Chastity or Jane.
She did not wish to expand her circle of acquaintances or circumstance.
This was her world. She had built it, she had maintained it, and it was perfectly acceptable in all ways.
If she did not have a financial surplus, she would take a small glass of sherry with her to her room and read in front of the fire until she tired.
As both Sabine and Jacobs would have long since retired, as well as the cook and the daily maid-of-all-work, she would bank the fire herself, douse the candles, and crawl into bed.
She would awake refreshed and ready to find the next day exactly as she had prepared it to be.
The preoccupation of Nell’s mind was her own business, and outside of her correspondence, she did not discuss it.
She did not include Fatima, Chastity, or Jane on any of her thoughts, but did often let her mind continue working as they informed her of their own activities and lives.
They regularly invited her to church luncheons, garden clubs, and charity organizations.
Nell turned down each and every invitation. Why should she bother with those activities? She had no wish to think of other things. Her passion was hers, and hers alone. She liked it that way, as it was predictable, and at her own convenience.
And she was going about her very well-prescribed day, finishing the exercise in Hyde Park, when there was a knock at the door. Nell frowned and looked at the clock. It was a touch too early for morning callers, and she was not done with her correspondence. This was not how days were supposed to go.
However, forbearance was probably a virtue, and if Nell attended church anymore, as both Fatima and Chastity begged, she might know that for a fact.
Jacobs opened the door, and while Nell couldn’t hear the exact words spoken, she could tell the person was asking for an audience.
Moments later, Jacobs appeared to ask if she would receive this unexpected visitor, and Nell had to unclench her jaw in order to acquiesce to societal expectations.
The visitor was a well-dressed woman. Her bonnet was fashionable, but not overly so.
Her clothes were well-tailored but of modest colors and style.
Her gloves were clean. If one were to spy her on the streets, one might think her a gently bred lady on the way to or from market, with groomsmen somewhere, ready to carry her parcels.
But instead of an apple or a strip of ribbon, she pulled a letter from the small basket on her arm and held it outstretched. “Good morning, ma’am. I have been sent with a letter to deliver personally.”
Nell narrowed her eyes. “From whom?” There were few possibilities for this sort of oddness.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, ma’am.” The letter did not waver an inch.
But Nell’s stomach plummeted. She snatched the letter, tore it open, and devoured its contents. Her debt, as it were, was coming due. The boon that Nell promised to give in exchange for her freedom was being called in.
You are to receive a suitor , Mrs. Dove-Lyon wrote.
You needn’t engage in anything you find untoward, but you must not turn him away.
Please include your calling card in your response, along with a list of times he may find you at home.
He is of good birth, good fortune, and good reputation.
According to the rules of our bargain, you will be welcoming.
She hadn’t included a threat if Nell didn’t comply.
She hadn’t needed to—the point of these bargains, and she knew Mrs. Dove-Lyon had many, was held together by honor and desperation.
No one knew the cascades of cause-and-effect her myriad deals had, and if one did not comply, a woman didn’t know who could be hurt. There was no choice.
After ten years of blissful widowhood, Nell would have a gentleman caller. This was most unpleasant news.
“This is insane,” Beckett said to Timothy, who drove him to the woman’s house. “I can’t very well call upon a woman I’ve never met. We haven’t been introduced properly.”
Timothy grinned that nearly famous toothsome smile. “That’s the beauty of this arrangement. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is famous for these sorts of things.”
Beckett narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Famous? I’ve never heard of her. In which circles is she famous?”
Timothy’s cheeks colored. “Perhaps that is hyperbole on my part. I only meant that we can trust her.”
“Trust her to what? Good Lord, Timothy, what have you gotten us into?” Beckett smothered his face with his hands, inhaling the smell of the supple leather of his gloves.
To him, it was a soothing scent. Steady.
Unchanging. Predictable. “I’m a misanthrope.
Why on God’s green earth should I inflict myself on some poor unsuspecting widow?
Poor thing is probably in there, wide-eyed and expectant for a man more like you than I.
I’ll just disappoint her with you standing there. ”
Timothy winced at Beckett’s words. Timothy was far more self-conscious of his height.
His height was short enough that it was, yes, in some circles, considered a birth defect.
But that was ridiculous. The man was fiercely intelligent, stupidly handsome, emotionally adroit, and would inherit a title.
Who cared if he couldn’t ride a horse or run?
He had a carriage for both of those things.
“I’ll stay in the carriage, all the same,” Timothy said. “I wouldn’t want to confuse the poor dear.”
“Then why did you come at all?” Beckett groused.
He looked down at his clothing—all chosen by Timothy’s valet, and purchased, tailored, and delivered at great speed and expense.
Beckett hadn’t seen the point, but all Timothy had to do was give him this hangdog look that said, I shall lose everything if you do not comply , and Beckett grumbled and paid the Bond Street tailor his due.
“I came to make sure you went through with it,” Timothy said, pointing to the carriage door, which Beckett was supposed to exit.
Beckett sighed, knowing he probably looked like a reluctant schoolboy.
“Quite.” He looked down at his new gloves.
The coachman opened the door for him and put down the step.
“Let’s get this over with.” He put on his hat as he stepped down, the fine mist of the day clinging to his clothing.
He rapped on the door to the small townhome and presented his card to the man answering the door.
“She is expecting you,” the man said, ushering him inside.
Beckett handed off his hat and gloves, feeling a pang when that familiar leather smell left his person. It was a small thing to have a comfort like that. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. He was an earl. He had better bloody act like one.
“Lord Beckett, ma’am.”
Mrs. Cornelia Reid stood and before curtsying, she gave him a scrutinizing look.
She was, surprisingly, a handsome woman.
Her walnut-colored hair was pulled back severely, but the style couldn’t hide the natural shine and luster.
Her face was clear and unmarked, and her wide gray eyes were fringed with thick dark lashes.
“My lord. Do have a seat. Jacobs, please bring us refreshments.”
“Thank you, but I am not in need—” Beckett attempted, but was interrupted.
“Thank you, Jacobs,” she said with a tone full of iron and command.
He was dumbfounded. She had the temerity to interrupt him? He was the ranking person in this room. It was not done.
Instead of apologizing or dancing around politeness, as any right-minded person would do, she gestured to the settee opposite hers. Hers was well-worn, but the one he was to settle into was stiff with age and non-use. So she didn’t have many visitors? What did Timothy get him into?
“So.” Her assessing look came back, and she scrutinized him as if he were a naughty schoolboy brought in for punishment. Good God, was this how the Catholics felt?
“Quite,” he said in return, looking her over as boldly as she did.
Her face was square, which was not considered as beautiful as the softer, heart-shaped visages, but it was striking.
Her jaw was pronounced but not heavy. It was more like every line of her face was drawn as if God had used a ruler’s edge.
She did not seem to have a soft side anywhere.
“I am to receive your suit, then?” she asked.
He choked. Perhaps he did need refreshment. “My suit?”
“That’s what I was given to believe.” She stared at him, still unwavering, still remarkably unimpressed with him. Now he was wishing Timothy had come inside with him. At least he could have tried to soften her up. Beckett had no talent for such a thing.