"Let me bid last. That's all I ask."
"It may not come to that."
"If it does, I'd be happy to help make you richer."
"The nabob speaking."
He shrugged, not about to argue. "I saw her last night, you know, when she first came in. She disturbed my sleep, and that doesn't happen as a rule. I hope she decides to stay for a time."
"Since you're so interested, I might ask a favor of you."
"Ask away." Feeling decidedly content with the possibilities in his favor, he set to eating again, his appetite commensurate with his youth and level of physical activity.
"This note that's to be delivered to her lawyer. I might use your man rather than mine. To put anyone who might be watching off the scent."
"Be my guest." He reached for another slice of ham. "No one will dare to interfere with you." "True." He didn't argue his reputation for violence. Nor his record for surviving more duels than anyone in England. Glancing up from his plate, he cast her a quizzical look. "She really intrigues me. Tell me why?" "She's very beautiful."
He resumed cutting his ham. "It's not just that." "Maybe the scent of innocence provokes you." His gaze came up again and his dark eyes were strangely cool. "I don't like innocence."
"Then she's the exception, unless you want to be second."
He shook his head very gently. "Not a chance." His mouth twitched into a grin. "It almost makes one believe in-"
"Bewitchment?"
He laughed. "I was going to say avarice:" "Greed in conjunction with a woman isn't unusual." "It is for me." He abruptly pushed his chair away from the table as though the thought were objectionable. "I'll be downstairs until Tattersall's opens," he crisply said, standing. "My man will be available for your errands." And turning, he walked away.
Molly watched him leave the room and wondered what had come over the most profligate rake in London. Too little sleep, she pragmatically thought, or simply the male fear of emotion. Bathurst was particularly insensitive to finer feeling since his return from India. He lived on the edge, betting on anything, needing to win, always outbidding the competition for objects he desired. No need to look for philanthropic sentiments concerning his interest in Miss Leslie. Shaking the crumbs from her skirt, she rose from her chair and went to see if Isabella was finished with her letter.
"I'm ready," Isabella said, sealing the letter with a bit of wax as Mrs. Crocker entered the room. "There wasn't much to say. Lampert has had instructions for Grandpapa's funeral for years now. Grandpapa was like that. He preferred making his own arrangements. I simply told Lampert I'd be out of town for some time and should he need to get in touch with me, he could send a note to the bookseller on Albemarle Street. Mr. Martin won't mind. He's known me all my life." Standing, she turned and moved toward Mrs. Crocker with the letter.
"Very sensible, my dear. We'll see that your Mr. Martin is contacted should any messages be sent there. Let me take this to a servant, and if you wish, when I return we can find something to amuse you, to divert you from the awfulness of events. Certainly, you're in need of some gowns."
"Perhaps mine could just be cleaned."
"Of course. In the meantime, make yourself comfortable while I see that your letter is on its way. Did you notice the novels on the shelf near the window?"
She hadn't, and after Mrs. Crocker left the room, Isabella examined the selection of books. Astonished, she surveyed not only the latest novels but an array of works in Latin, Greek, and French. One would hardly expect to see such erudition in a brothel, however elegant. Who read these? she wondered. Taking out a copy of Christine de Pisan's The Book of the City of the Ladies, she thought it strange reading for the ladies-or men, for that matter-who inhabited this house. Taking note of Madame de Sévigné's letters next-one of her favorites-she slipped out the small morocco-bound volume. Her gaze swept the shelves in fascination-one after another of books she loved was available in this cozy, sun-filled room. The sensation of fantasy returned to her, as though she'd stepped into a magical refuge filled with comforts, safety, and simple pleasures.
But the door opening to admit her hostess reminded her that in addition to the pleasures that seemed fantastical were other improprieties she need consider.
"Ah, you've found some you like." Mrs. Crocker carried in a breakfast tray.
"They're all quite wonderful. Are they yours?"
"Reading is my greatest pleasure. Come, sit and have something to eat." Placing the tray on a bureau top, Molly lifted off several dishes, a teapot, and cups and arranged them on a small table. "Guillaume sent up some warm pastries with an omelet. I hope you like marzipan tarts and strawberries."
"Have you somehow tapped into my mind, Mrs. Crocker?" Isabella queried with a smile. "Not only are the books superb, along with the room, but marzipan has been my favorite since childhood."
"Perfect. Along with chantilly cream, I hope." Sitting, she waved Isabella over and began pouring tea for them. "Your note is on its way. The lawyer should have it in his hands within the half hour."
"Thank you again." Isabella set the two books she held on the table and pulled up a green faux bamboo chair of the latest fashion. "Since I'm not able to attend the funeral, I hope I may soon visit Grandpapa's burial site. He wished to be placed in a vault he had constructed at our country home."
"I'm sure your troubles with your relatives will be brief."
"Particularly if I go through with our arrangement." Her gaze slid away from Mrs. Crocker.
"Would you like me to try to find you a barrister willing to offer a stronger challenge to your uncle et al? I know how difficult a choice this is."
Sighing, Isabella traced the pattern on the silver teaspoon with the pad of her finger. "I'm afraid any warning would only postpone my relatives' dastardly plans. And unless, as you pointed out last night, they are publicly shamed out of the idea of marrying me into their family, they will continue to harass me."
"You might move to the country."
"I think I'd be even more afraid. The solitude-" She made a small moue. "I've probably read too many popular novels, but I can imagine them locking me into the attic and leaving me there once they have my money. Who would even know?"
Who, indeed, Molly thought, when the young lady was without friends. "I'll be perfectly frank. When I spoke with you last night, I planned, as you know, to make a profit on our bargain. But I find myself increasingly uncomfortable doing so."
"It was a bargain I well understood, Mrs. Crocker. I'm not a child, nor do I delude myself on the need for this extremity."
"I understand-and I agree with the need. But I shan't take any money. I was once in a similar predicament-albeit not one that involved wealth such as yours. But I was a young woman without friends, subjected, no, forced into a grossly obscene relationship. It took me many years to rise above the shame. There are those who would say I have not yet done so, but I did what I had to for survival. Which explains my requirement that the ladies who live here do so willingly. Forgive me." She smiled faintly. "I didn't intend to digress into circumstances of no concern to you."
"On the contrary, your story is very pertinent to mine. How old were you when-"
"Sixteen," Molly quietly replied, the cruel memories never completely suppressed.
"How awful for you." Isabella took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. "Certainly at twenty-two I can be as resolute." She smiled faintly. "It's not as though my virginity is of any use to me. In fact, it's a liability, is it not? As to my reputation in society, I have never set foot in society. So any reputation is my relatives' concern, not mine." Her smile broadened at the thought of their discomfort and her voice took on a measure of composure. "When one considers this in practical terms, the situation becomes much less emotional."
"One can't disregard emotion completely," Molly cautioned. "I speak from experience."
"Nevertheless, I feel much better now." Isabella fluttered her hands over the tabletop. "As though a huge burden of indecision has vanished. I think I shall have a marzipan tart with a large dollop of chantilly cream to start, and consider myself fortunate not to be married to Harold this morning."
Molly couldn't help but smile at her good cheer. "Perhaps it's all a matter of perspective after all."
"Indeed it is. Consider I have escaped a dreadful fate and am now quite comfortable in this pleasant room with lovely books and marzipan tarts. And if Grandpapa were alive instead of dead, I would have the best of all possible worlds."
Her expression had sobered, as it always did when she spoke of her grandfather. "You said he had been ill for some time," Molly kindly noted. "Perhaps he was ready to leave the world."
"Except for saying good-bye to me, he was. From the very beginning when his heart began to fail, he'd never feared death. He'd had a good life, he always said, and was long overdue. But I miss him dreadfully."
"Of course you do. Were you with him long?"
"Since I was four. Mama died at sea, and when Papa and I came home to England, he missed her so dreadfully, Grandpapa said he felt as though Papa was just waiting to die. That first winter, when he fell ill with a fever, he didn't have the will to survive. Grandpapa and I were together ever since. Do you have family?"
Molly shook her head. "Only my girls here. And Bathurst in a way. He doesn't have much family-a mother who's retreated from the world." Often literally, she thought, but knew better than to breach Dermott's privacy.
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