Chapter Four
Mr. James Bell did not employ a valet. Nor a cook, nor a butler, nor indeed a single footman. Just a charwoman to come in and sweep twice a week. She was an illiterate and perpetually harried woman, unlikely to snoop.
Mr. Bell was, however, a generous employer. He compensated said charwoman thrice the normal amount, and he treated his clerks well. Paid wages promptly, with annual rises in pay and bonuses at Christmas. Well-paid employees did not question or complain.
Mr. Bell lived in rooms above his business offices, and he kept eccentric hours. Though his dedication was above question, the clerks never knew at what time he might appear belowstairs. He’d let spread a vague rumor that he suffered from recurrent bouts of headache. Some mornings, they found him already behind his desk at eight, cravat-deep in accounting ledgers. Other days, like today, he didn’t appear until well after noon. This inconsistent schedule kept his clerks on constant alert.
Mr. Bell dressed in unremarkable though well-tailored attire. He parted his black hair severely and combed it with pomade until it lay flat against his scalp. “Fastidious,” some might have described him. The less charitable might have said, “Dull as toast.” Rarely was he observed going out-of-doors without a hat, and he wore spectacles at all times.
There was only plain glass in the lenses, of course. Julian didn’t wear them to see. He wore them so he would not be seen.
And the disguise had worked quite well for several years.
It was midafternoon when he came down the back stairs today and entered the offices from the rear. As usual, he found his eight clerks hunched over two neat rows of desks that ran the length of the room. They all hastened to their feet with a chorus of “Good day, Mr. Bell.”
He nodded in reply.
The errand boys threw him guilty looks from a corner, where they no doubt had been dicing until a few moments ago. Julian decided to overlook the infraction. For now. He’d provide tasks enough to keep them hopping the rest of the day.
“As you were,” he said, retreating into his office—a partitioned section at the back with a glass window for supervisory purposes and drapes he could pull when privacy was desired. The frosted pane set in the door was lettered in gilt: “J. Bell. Manager, Aegis Investments.”
So far as his employees understood, Mr. Bell managed the interests of several wealthy investors. These unnamed investors—aristocrats, it was presumed, who could not be seen sullying their hands with trade—had pooled their money toward various business endeavors: in particular, several wool and linen mills to the North, and commercial real estate holdings in most of England’s larger cities. Mr. Bell oversaw the operations and management of these investments with the assistance of his clerks and a personal secretary, and he reported to his superiors regularly.
In reality, Mr. Bell had no superiors, and there was but one investor: Julian himself. He not only owned the mills in the North and the buildings in Bristol, Oxford, York, and beyond—but he in fact owned most of this very block, including the mercantile building that housed the Aegis Investments offices and the residential row to the rear. He was, by any standard, a man of great wealth. And key to all of this was maintaining his status as a man of many secrets.
If certain powerful men learned just how he’d amassed this fortune and just what he intended to do with it …
Well, he already knew the completion of that thought, didn’t he? Those certain men would arrange to have him waylaid in a darkened alleyway, pummeled to death.
He shuddered, thinking of Leo and his broken face.
His secretary, Thatcher, followed him into his private office, waving a clutch of papers. “The morning post, sir.”
“What’s in it?”
Thatcher riffled through the papers. “A report on the fluctuating price of indigo. A letter from the Benevolence Society for the Deserving Poor, requesting the renewal of the investors’ generous subscription. The contract for lease of the Dover property. Your express from the mills.”
“Give it here. The express, I mean. Leave the rest on the blotter, and you may go.”
Thatcher did as asked, as always.
Julian broke the wax seal and quickly scanned the letter in his hands. He now demanded twice-weekly expresses from the mills, and he always read them first thing. Worker morale remained high, his agent reported, and production was steady.
Good, all good. After the flare of labor riots earlier that year, he’d been keeping close watch on his mills. Outside efforts to mobilize dissent amongst his workers had so far met with little success. And little wonder—his laborers were the best paid of any textile workers in the region, and he took pains to make them feel secure in their posts. He’d even gone so far as to visit each mill personally and assure the workers no jobs would be lost to the new machines.
It wasn’t such a radical formula to Julian: Invest a measure of good will in the workers, reap benefits in the form of steady production. He’d never understand why the other mill owners didn’t grasp the concept. But then, their loss was his gain. His mills’ reputation for consistent, high-quality production was the source of many lucrative military contracts. Over the course of the past decade, more than half the enlisted men in the British Army had marched into the fray wearing Aegis wool on their backs. When they fell in battle, their wounds were bound with Aegis flannel.
Now, with the wars over, England’s economy was depressed. But the wealthy still had coin to spend. Mr. James Bell made certain the country’s finest mercers, drapers, and upholsterers all carried Aegis cloth in their shops. Meanwhile, Julian Bellamy set the fashions, assuring those shops of a steady trade.
He called Thatcher back in. “Here,” he said, hastily scrawling his signature on the lease before passing it across the desk. “This is done. Tell the Benevolence Society we’ll renew the subscription, and direct the warehouse to send over any surplus bolts of cloth for their use.”
“Yes, sir. And if you please, sir, the tailors are here.”
“Send them in.”
Schwartz and Cobb filed into the office, laden with patterns and samples. With a curt nod of greeting, Julian waved the latest sketches to his desk. He had not lied to Lily on this count, at least. He was late for this meeting with his tailors. Unconscionably late. The drawings and samples before him represented the culmination of a year’s preparation and strategy, and his men had teetered on the brink of action for months. The plans wanted only his final approval before a production schedule could be set. But something always held him back. The patterns weren’t right, or the dyes were inferior, or the price of wool too dear … Again and again, he’d found himself delaying, for one reason and another.
Strike that.
He’d been delaying for one reason. No other.
Lily.
Her sweet rosemary scent bloomed in his memory, and his thoughts tangled in the lush fringe of her eyelashes. He forced down the tide of emotion in his chest. Not here. He could not allow himself to think of her here. Whatever nocturnal exploits Julian Bellamy enjoyed, Mr. James Bell did not have time for women.
And neither man could afford to contemplate love.
“I told a dreadful lie today,” Lily said, even before the greetings were out. Standing in the entry of the Duke of Morland’s drawing room, she hugged her hostess tightly and confessed, “Several lies, as a matter of fact.”
Amelia pulled back from the embrace. “Really? That seems unlike you.”
“It is.” With a fretful shake of her head, Lily squeezed her friend’s arm in supplication. “I’m here to beg your assistance, Amelia. I have to make those lies the truth. At least some of them.”
“Well, I am all anticipation to hear what this is about. It’s not often I’m recruited into clandestine schemes, you know. But please, do sit down first and take some tea.”
Lily’s racing pulse insisted there wasn’t a moment to waste. But she would win no favors by being rude. And today she needed to ask a very big favor indeed.
Amelia steered her toward a pair of French armchairs situated beneath a tall, lace-draped window. A small table between the two chairs held a tea service and refreshments. In accordance with Amelia’s talent for homemaking, all was the picture of refinement and good taste. When Lily sat down, she found the striped silk upholstery to be so smooth and taut, it took some effort to keep from sliding off the seat.
“What’s brought you to Town?” Lily asked, as her friend poured tea. “I thought you and the duke would remain in Cambridgeshire until the babe is born.”
Amelia nipped a lump of sugar into the teacup and stirred. “Oh, it was Spencer’s wish to return to London. He wanted us closer to specialists and physicians when my time draws near.” She shrugged, extending the cup and saucer to Lily. “Never mind that the man owns England’s largest stud farm and has attended hundreds of equine births. When it comes to his own child, he’s suddenly a bundle of nerves.”
“It only proves how much he adores you.”
Despite the duke’s terse, autocratic nature, Lily had suspected from the first he’d make Amelia a surprisingly tender husband. It would seem she’d been right.
“I am no specialist,” Lily said. “But to my untrained eye, you look the picture of robust health. Not only health, but true contentment.”
From her radiant complexion to her gently rounded belly, Amelia embodied domestic bliss. And despite herself, Lily knew a brief moment of envy. Perhaps this was the real reason she’d let her friendships with women fall by the wayside over the years. One by one, they’d all become wives, then mothers. Much as she’d loved Leo and valued her financial independence, Lily found it hard sometimes, not to want what they had, too.
“I do feel well,” Amelia replied modestly, lifting her own teacup. “No sickness anymore. I’m more fortunate than many women in my condition.”
They each sipped their tea.
After they lowered their cups, Lily looked to her friend expectantly, waiting for her cue to begin. A long moment passed. She threw an anxious glance toward the clock, growing increasingly concerned with every swing of the pendulum.
Lily cleared her throat. “Well.”
Amelia raised her eyebrows and gave a benign smile. “Yes?”
Had she forgotten Lily’s confession, or was she simply playing coy? Just when Lily was beginning to wonder whether she needed to start at the beginning again, recognition snapped in Amelia’s eyes.
“Oh, yes!” she said, setting down her teacup to frantically churn the air with her hands. “You told a lie, or several of them, and you desperately need my help.” She slid forward on her chair. “I’m so sorry dear, it’s an effect of breeding, it seems. Strong fingernails, weak memory. Please, tell me what I can do.”
Relieved, Lily said, “It’s Julian. He’s still obsessed with finding Leo’s killers, to the exclusion of all else. He wanders the streets at all hours of the night. He scarcely eats or sleeps. He’s neglected all his friendships, declines every invitation. He’s on course to join Leo in the grave, and I don’t know what to do. Perhaps it’s naïve, but I can’t help thinking … if only I could nudge him out into society, you know? Then perhaps he would return to his old, carefree self.”
Amelia nodded in encouragement. “Go on.”
“This morning, we … argued. In the end, I extracted a promise from him. He agreed to escort me to three social events. I gave him some flummery about wanting to enjoy life again and considering taking a husband, but in truth, I just want to keep Julian out of harm’s way. And I didn’t want to delay, so I told him the first event would be tonight.”
“I see,” said Amelia.
Not yet, she didn’t.
Lily bit her lip. “Here is the lie. I told him you and Spencer were hosting a dinner party.”
“A dinner party? Tonight?” Now Amelia looked to the clock. “Oh, dear. Already half two.”
Lily grabbed her friend’s hands. “I know it’s a tremendous imposition, and here you are in such a delicate state. But believe me—nothing less than the truest fear for Julian’s life would drive me to suggest it. It needn’t be anything too grand, and I’d help you however I could with supplies, kitchen staff …”
“Menus and servants are no problem. I have both in ample supply. But inviting guests, on this short notice …” The corner of Amelia’s mouth twisted. “And then there’s Spencer to contend with. He abhors parties of every sort.”
“Perhaps if you explain to him what’s at stake.”
“Tell him he must host a party to save Julian Bellamy’s hide?” Amelia shook her head. “Forgive me, but I don’t think that argument will work. There’s no love lost between Spencer and Mr. Bellamy.”
Lily’s heart sank. “Is there no way to convince him?”
“Oh, I have my ways of convincing Spencer.” Amelia’s brow made a flirtatious quirk. “But it’s not only him I must worry about, unfortunately.” Her demeanor grew serious, and she drew her chair closer to speak in confidence. “I’m sorry, Lily. I wish I could help you, I truly do. But there are more obstacles here than the late hour and my husband’s reluctance. This isn’t to be repeated, you understand.”
Lily nodded, encouraging her to continue. She focused intently on her friend’s lips. “Slowly, if you please.”
“We’re not alone here in Town. Do you recall last summer, when we were all at Briarbank and my—” Amelia’s head suddenly jerked, as though she were heeding a call from somewhere behind her.
Lily looked over Amelia’s shoulder. A young woman stood in the door. It was Claudia Dumarque, the Duke of Morland’s cousin and ward. Claudia was a rather strange girl—a fractious mix of rebellion and sensitivity—but Lily attributed the awkwardness to her age. She was fifteen, or at least she had been the past summer, when they’d all been together at Amelia’s family home in Gloucestershire. Perhaps the girl had turned sixteen by now. Regardless, she was very young.
And she was pregnant. Hugely so.
Lily’s mouth fell open in shock.
Claudia said something to Amelia as she moved into the room. The loose smocking of her dress billowed and stretched as she walked. Her time of delivery must be fast approaching.
“I didn’t realize you were entertaining a guest,” the girl said, stopping before them. “I was just looking for my …” She paused when her eyes met Lily’s. A self-conscious smile dimpled her cheeks. “Goodness, Lady Lily, I’m not a ghost. I’m only breeding.”
Lily snapped her mouth shut, feeling a blush work up her throat. She’d been staring at the poor girl like something that crawled out from a crack in the plaster.
To Amelia, Claudia said, “You hadn’t told her?”
“Not yet,” Amelia replied. She cast an apologetic glance in Lily’s direction.
At last, Lily recovered herself. “It’s so good to see you, Claudia.” She embraced the girl as best she could around her massive belly, planting a light kiss on her cheek. “I hope you’re well?”
Stupid question. What possible answer could the girl give? Pregnant and unmarried, and sixteen at the most—she could not be feeling entirely well.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
“Will you join us for some tea?” Lily gestured toward the chairs.
“No, thank you. I’m on my way to have a rest. I was looking for my book, but I must have left it upstairs. If you’ll excuse me, Lady Lily.” She nodded in lieu of a curtsy and moved to leave.
“One moment,” Amelia told Lily, extending a hand in the universal gesture for wait.
Lily resumed her seat as Amelia rushed to her young ward’s side. Together they ascended the grand staircase, Claudia with one hand on the railing and the other arm on Amelia’s shoulder.
Tearing her gaze away, Lily busied herself pouring yet more tea. She didn’t want to be caught gawking again.
After a minute, Amelia dropped into the chair opposite. “So,” she said.
“So …?” Lily prompted.
As Amelia began to tell the tale, her strength of emotion was evident. Unfortunately, it also made her speech difficult to follow. Her story was a rapid stream of words, twisting in several directions as it flowed from beginning to end. Though Lily couldn’t catch everything her friend said, she gathered that Claudia had been seduced by one of her tutors. Her pregnancy was to blame for her strange behavior at Briarbank that summer, it seemed. The poor girl had hidden her condition from everyone.
At last, Amelia’s words slowed. “We are in Town to be close to specialists, but not for me. My own pregnancy has gone easily, but Claudia has had episodes of bleeding and pain. At least here we’re closer to the best physicians.”
“My goodness,” Lily said, trying to absorb it all. “What a difficult situation.”
“Claudia is confined to the house. We’ve kept the pregnancy secret for now. It only seems the prudent thing, since we’re still uncertain whether she’ll keep the child.”
Lily briefly wondered whether Amelia referred to the option of fostering the baby with another family, or the possibility of a stillbirth. Both, she supposed. “I thought you said you’re not often recruited into clandestine schemes.”
Amelia shrugged. “It has been occurring with more frequency of late. Poor Spencer was going mad with worry in Cambridgeshire, but the stables were always his refuge. Now he’s away from all that, trapped in a London house with two breeding women, one of whom is ill … It’s understandably trying. So you see, a dinner party may not be the best idea.”
“Of course. I see.”
“You’re disappointed.” Amelia laced her hands together and squeezed.
“No, not at all,” Lily lied brightly. “It was only an idea, and a flawed one at that. We’ll do it another time. I’ll just send Julian a note to tell him tonight’s dinner is canceled.”
And hope he doesn’t turn up dead by morning.
She shut her eyes, and red dots swam behind her eyelids. The same bright crimson shade as his blood.
When Amelia leaned closer and put a comforting hand on her arm, Lily couldn’t help it. The tears welled in her eyes and overflowed. Soon she was sobbing on Amelia’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just so worried for him. This morning the costermonger delivered him to our doorstep before dawn. He’d collapsed on the street, and he was bleeding, and for a moment …”
All the fears she’d battled in those predawn hours came rushing back, assailing her with double force. This time, she let herself feel them, surrendering to the comfort of her friend’s embrace as the tears fell.
Once she’d mastered her emotion, Lily said, “For a moment, I was so certain he was dead. Just like Leo.”
Amelia pulled back. Her own eyes were moist with sympathy as she offered a handkerchief. “You poor dear. Is he well now? Mr. Bellamy, I mean.”
“Yes.” Lily wiped her eyes with the square of linen. “It was only a small injury, sustained when the crowd panicked at a boxing match. He won’t stop attending the things, you know. Wherever there’s fighting—man or beast—he goes there, hoping to find Leo’s killers. But I fear he’s just going to get himself killed. It’s been five months now. I don’t understand why he can’t let it go.”
“He feels responsible. That’s what he told us that night. He was supposed to be with Leo, and he thinks he could have prevented the murder if he’d been there.”
Lily sniffed. “Does he think he has some exclusive claim on regret? Doesn’t he realize I’ve felt the same guilt, every day since Leo died? If only I’d asked him to stay home, I tell myself. If only I’d insisted he take the family carriage instead of a hack. If only I’d been with him that night. Never mind that I’m a woman and a slightly built one at that. If I’d been in that alleyway with Leo, I would have fought those men with everything I had. Strength, fury, nails, teeth. I would have done anything in my power to save my brother’s life, even if it meant giving my own.”
A little sob escaped her, and Amelia clasped her wrist.
“And now,” Lily went on, “it’s like I’m watching Julian wander into that same alleyway that claimed Leo’s life. The only difference is, it’s all happening at a slower pace. I’m forced to watch from a distance, standing helplessly by as each step brings him closer and closer to danger. No matter how I call out to him, he doesn’t respond. Then this morning …”
Then this morning had changed everything. She’d held his senseless body in his arms, felt his blood on her fingertips. Atop it all, that desperate kiss … It made the danger so real. She refused to stand by and watch Julian stumble toward his own doom. This time, she would fight.
In her lap, her hands curled into fists. “Before Leo died, Julian lived to amuse and be amused. He loved balls, the theater, his friends, and his clubs. Somehow I have to force him back into that world, so he’ll remember what he’s been missing. Since the dinner party won’t work tonight—”
“Wait,” Amelia said, her chin firming. “The dinner party will work. We’ll make it work.”
“Truly?” Her heart leapt. “But what about the duke? What about Claudia?”
“Leave everything to me. Claudia will remain upstairs. Though I warn you, the menu will be simple, and I can’t promise Spencer will be the most gracious of hosts.”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s probably for the best if he and Julian stay in separate rooms, anyhow.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
“It’s my pleasure, truly. I love to give parties but have little opportunity. What about other guests? Is there anyone you’d like me to invite?”
Lily paused. “I know this may be difficult at such short notice,” she said, “but do you by any chance know where we might find a sizable group of eligible bachelors?”
“What’s this?” Amelia broke into laughter. “You do realize you’re talking to a woman who was, as recently as five months ago, a confirmed spinster with no suitors at all?”
“It’s just that I promised Julian. If he would be my escort to social events, I told him I’d consider marrying. I have no real intention of marrying at all, and no desire to inspire the hopes or attentions of gentlemen I actually … Oh, this is sounding horrible, isn’t it?”
“Rather.” Amelia’s eyes widened with amusement. “Let me be certain I understand. You’d like me to find some warm male bodies to fill chairs at the dinner table. All of these men must be presentable and feasibly marriageable, yet hungry or lonely enough to show up for dinner on a few hours’ notice?”
“Well …” Lily shrugged. “Yes?”
Amelia smiled as she patted Lily’s shoulder. “My dear, it just so happens, today you are in luck.”