9. Chapter 9-Bradford
London was precisely as Bradford had last left it—overcrowded, smelly, and loud.
He did his best not to remember the events of the last time he’d been here, though of course that was impossible.
Pale, watercolored memories draped over everything, much like the mist that lingered well into the morning.
It had taken Mr. Thornton but three days to arrive on Bradford’s townhouse doorstep, self-satisfied and amused with his success.
“Her name is Miss Lily Preston,” he’d announced without preamble, once they were cloistered in Bradford’s study with the door shut firmly behind them.
Bradford’s staff in London had been shocked at his sudden arrival; the only thing that would be more shocking to them would be to find out the real reason for his visit.
The name rang through Bradford with the clarity and tenor of a single strike of a brass bell. Lily Preston. It fit her.
“Are you certain?” Bradford leaned forward in the chair behind the desk and it squeaked.
The sound was old and familiar, but it had been so long since he’d heard it that it was somehow new and surprising as well.
It had been his father’s chair; Bradford hadn’t changed anything about the house since his parents had been alive.
For one head-swimming moment, it felt like he was a young man again.
Like the last ten or so years hadn’t happened.
Mr. Thornton nodded. “All the parameters match. It turns out your governess was truthful with you about some aspects.” He paused and rummaged in his pocket, coming up with a notebook.
It was the briefest of pauses, but Bradford had to resist the urge to snap at him all the same.
“Miss Lily Preston is the second daughter of the late Baron Cavendish. The title passed to her eldest brother, Richard, approximately seven years ago, at which time he proceeded to gamble and otherwise squander away all of the family assets.”
Bradford leaned back in his chair, nearly stunned with his relief. So it had been a brother’s debts she’d been working to pay off, not a husband’s. And Mr. Thornton had called her a miss, not a missus, had he not?
Meanwhile, Mr. Thornton continued, “However, approximately two years ago, her eldest brother died, and the title passed to the second son, William. The new Lord Cavendish was somewhat estranged from the family—though no one seems to know those particulars—and was away in India. By all accounts, he was completely unaware that his eight sisters were languishing in poverty.”
“Eight sisters?”
Mr. Thornton nodded. “Your Miss Preston was one of ten children, now one of nine.”
“Good heavens.” Bradford’s mind went instantly to Rebecca. He was constantly preoccupied with her care and rearing, and she was an only child. He couldn’t imagine having ten such delightful burdens.
“Things became rather desperate for the Preston misses. They retreated from society, and there’s very little information about that time. They only had the house and a stipend of fifty pounds per annum.” The man frowned at his notebook as if disappointed he couldn’t offer more details.
But Bradford could imagine what that might have been like. Eight young women living unprotected, in increasing poverty. Poverty was challenging enough when one was accustomed to it—it must have been as shocking as a sudden, freezing downpour to those young ladies.
“You’ll be relieved to know that not everything she told you was a lie.
Her brother William did return from India with a massive fortune only months ago.
He spirited his sisters away to Paris for a few months.
On the surface, it was so that their familial seat could be renovated, but doubtless he endeavored to get them out of the public eye for a time. ”
“And now they’ve returned?”
At Mr. Thornton’s nod, Bradford felt something that he hadn’t in quite some time: anticipation, excitement. He wanted to leap out of his chair and go to her, to watch the surprise flit over her face when she realized he’d caught her.
And even more than that petty victory, he just wanted to see her again.
“Are you certain it’s her?” he asked again.
“I just followed her to the park. She fits your description precisely. I’d wager they’re still there—would you like to go see?”
They went on horseback. Perhaps to the casual observer, they looked like nothing more than a pair of gentlemen enjoying the fresh air and exercising their horses.
If one had looked more closely, they might have noticed the grim set to Bradford’s jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles where he gripped the loose reins.
Despite his umbrage, it was a beautiful day. London was about to burst into bloom, and it wasn’t just because of the heavy buds atop the trees. The Season was set to begin, and every eligible young lady had returned to the city in hopes of making a fair match.
It was a wonderful time of year to be a single gentleman of fortune with a pair of working eyes.
Even Mr. Thornton caught the spirit of things, doffing his hat toward any lady who looked their direction.
There were several groupings of them about, but as Mr. Thornton hadn’t yet slowed his canter, Bradford didn’t pay the ladies any notice.
“She’s just ahead. She and her sisters both. And it appears they’re not alone.”
Bradford couldn’t help but crane his neck.
They had emerged from a wooded section of the path, and ahead was an open expanse of grass.
The tender shoots hadn’t fully woken from their winter nap—the green was patchy and dull in places, but cheerful groupings were making good use of the space anyway.
There was very little that could keep a Londoner indoors on one of the first sunny days after a bleak winter.
Bradford saw several groups of ladies and gentlemen, but he didn’t see the only person he was searching for.
“You didn’t do her beauty justice when you described her—the gentlemen were bound to notice her. I’m only surprised there’s not a larger crowd,” Mr. Thornton said.
“You needn’t sound so delighted about it,” Bradford snapped, still looking.
Mr. Thornton grinned. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s just rare that I have a case that has such a charming end as this.” Bradford shot him a quizzical frown and the man answered by saying, “As of late, any case that doesn’t end with a corpse in the Thames is a treat.”
“If that’s true, you might consider a different profession.”
“I suppose I could force myself into that boring oblivion unique to clerical work. But despite the occasional corpse, I find this vastly preferable.” He frowned with some momentary introspection. “My own clerk might argue that I enjoy my job because of the occasional corpse.”
Bradford was no longer listening to Mr. Thornton because just then, he saw her.
Lily was seated on a dark green velvet coverlet. She wore a sky-blue day dress trimmed in white lace, with a pale pink ribbon woven through to form bows at the edge of her sleeves. A matching pink wrap was draped around her to add warmth.
Bradford took her in at a glance. If he’d been a less experienced horseman, he might have toppled from the saddle with the shock of it. The shock of her. Was his memory so faulty? Or had he done her a disservice in remembering her as a more muted version of the lady who now sat only yards from him?
When he’d first met her, Bradford had thought Miss Sarah Hughes to be the most beautiful young lady he’d ever seen. But Miss Sarah Hughes couldn’t hold a tapered candle to Miss Lily Preston.
Bradford was perpendicular to her. She hadn’t seen him, nor would she, not when her attention was so fully absorbed by those around her.
From his perch atop his horse, Bradford could examine the profile of her face when it wasn’t hidden behind the curve of her fine bonnet.
He’d recognize those full lips and that flawless skin anywhere—he’d dined across from them every evening for months.
What a wasted opportunity, he suddenly thought.
He’d had her at his table, under his roof, and hadn’t done anything right to keep her there.
He couldn’t even rightly call her his friend, not when he didn’t know what she’d been truthful about.
And now he’d never have the chance to truly get to know her again.
It was as if the role she’d played as governess were some drab chrysalis she’d since shed.
Lily was now radiantly beautiful—a piece properly slotted into her rightful puzzle.
Of course she should be dressed finely, servants standing ready at a respectful distance.
Of course she should be surrounded by other young ladies and doted upon by fine young gentlemen.
As Bradford watched, Lily tipped back her head and laughed at something one of those fine young gentlemen had said. A new, distinct kind of fury rolled through him, one that had nothing to do with the lies she’d told.
“Well,” Mr. Thornton prompted. “Don’t you wish to speak with her?”
Bradford had thought so. He’d imagined this moment happening a hundred different ways.
Even now, he could stomp forward in dramatic fashion, crashing through the various refreshments.
He imagined her round, shocked eyes as onlookers stared and gasped.
In every prior daydream, he’d savored her downfall.
Yet all of those imaginings were wrong, distasteful now that he was face to face with her.
He didn’t want to make a scene. He didn’t want to embarrass her.
What he wanted was to know if she truly believed that Handel was more talented than Bach.
He wanted to know which of the childhood stories she’d told him were real, and which were fabrication.
He wanted answers; he wanted the truth, from her very lips.
The only way he’d have a chance at that was to speak to her privately.
It was no good to go to her house—one look at his card and she’d pretend she wasn’t home, indefinitely.
And there’d be no sneaking past the butler and the footmen.
No, he needed to get to Miss Lily Preston before she realized he was there, in a scenario where she dare not make a scene…
Bradford finally shook his head. “Not here. I have a better idea.”