TuesdayNights (10 page)

He didn’t want to have to tell her he planned to marry her younger sister.

Chapter 12

Confessions on a Saturday

May 14, 1814

“Your business partner’s daughter is quite the thing,” Edward was saying as he helped himself to a drink from the sideboard in the library. He had just come from his daily trek to search for Anna, his attention on the modistes in Oxford Street. He was sure she was still in London, but in a town of a million people, she was proving difficult to locate.

Although his birthday was earlier that month, he chose not to celebrate it. At the age of five-and-twenty, he had come into his majority. Funds were suddenly available to him, funds he could use toward an expedition to search for artifacts in Greece or Italy. But without Anna, he had no desire to leave England. No desire to do much of anything except search for her.

Despite his mother’s latest ploy to marry him off to one of the Newton daughters, he had deftly avoided attending the ball where she would have made the introductions by sending a note claiming he was ill and would be spending the night at Michael’s townhouse with a chamber pot nearby.

Looking up from his latest business plan, Michael regarded his friend for a moment. He didn’t think Edward had believed any of the tale he and Eloisa had acted out the week before, but he decided to wait until Edward called their bluff before admitting anything.“I suppose,” he said nonchalantly. “Not my cup of tea, but I certainly hope she will be for someone else,” he added, remembering he had some time to find a suitor for her. At least ten months or more.

Edward took his usual chair. “Let’s suppose you tell me what
really
happened,” he suggested, one eyebrow cocked in what was apparently a challenge.

Michael let out the breath he’d been holding and set aside his business plan. “I found her at Lucy Gibbons’ brothel the night before you met her.”

Nearly sputtering with the news his friend had gone to a brothel, Edward straightened.

“It wasn’t like that,” Michael said with a shake of his head. “I had a note from Marcus asking that I meet him there. Haven’t seen the rake in ... a long time. So, while I waited for him to show up, I spotted Miss Waterford standing in a corner.

“I couldn’t get her out of there fast enough,” he said as his shoulders slumped.

Edward regarded Michael for a moment. “What the hell was she
doing
there?” he wondered.

Settling back into his chair, Michael frowned, realizing Edward thought she was in the brothel of her own choice. “She was the victim of one of Lucy’s schemes to get young country chits into her brothel,” he spat out with a good deal of disgust. “By the time I saw her, she had already been ruined by some baron, but I couldn’t just leave her there. Christ, she’s Waterford’s oldest daughter,” he whispered hoarsely. “Lucy made some excuse and demanded recompense, so I gave the bitch some blunt and got Eloisa the hell out of there.”

Edward stared at Michael, his elbows resting on his knees.
Christ. It’s even worse than I could have imagined
, he thought. “So, that entire time I was at White’s waiting for you to make an appearance, you were dealing with Eloisa?” His brows suddenly furrowed in concern. “I didn’t know. If you’d told me ...” Edward allowed the sentence to trail off, realizing almost immediately that there was nothing he could have done.

He hadn’t returned to the townhouse until ten in the morning, but on his way to his bedchamber, Edward had spied the young woman coming out of the room the viscountess used when she was in residence. From the crack in his doorway, he watched as she tiptoed to the back staircase. Then, several minutes later, he spied her from his windows as the chit made her way out the back garden, down the alley to the street, and around to the front of the house. Curious, he met her in the parlor shortly after Jeffers answered the door. Despite the black gown and the veil that covered part of her face, he could tell she was sporting a bruised cheek. “We could have made room for her here,” he reasoned and then noticed Michael’s cocked eyebrow.

“A household with two bachelors cannot host an unmarried woman. The scandal would be untenable,” Michael whispered as he shook his head. “I did the right thing,” he assured his friend. “It probably wasn’t right by her sister – I don’t see how it can be, so Olivia can never discover the truth – but I only did what was best for Eloisa.” He paused, wondering if he should admit the rest.

Michael had been intrigued by Eloisa’s offer to be his mistress, tempted to the point of almost accepting because he was ... curious. Because he knew he could always pretend she was Olivia, pretend he was spending his Tuesday nights making love to the only woman he had ever wanted. But the arrangement would have been as unfair to Eloisa as it was to Olivia. Even if Eloisa felt affection for him, as her incessant flirting suggested, at some point she would realize that Michael didn’t feel the same way about her.

“I had to fabricate a story for her father, you know,” he stated suddenly, realizing he had to take his mind off the possibility of bedding Eloisa.

“Oh?” Edward replied, surprised at Michael’s comment. “Wait. What are you saying?”

Michael shifted in the chair, thinking he might have to refill his brandy. He’d never made up such a story before, never lied to anyone like he would have to lie to Harold Waterford. “I have created a back story for Eloisa. To make her more ... respectable,” he admitted finally. “I’ve even started to believe it myself,” he claimed with a shake of his head. “And when I’m next in Sussex, I plan to tell him about his newly widowed daughter.”

Edward allowed his head to lean to one side, probably because he was unable to keep it upright. “Oh, this will be rich,” he replied, wondering how his best friend would ever be able to pull off telling a bald-faced lie. Michael Cunningham, liar? he thought with a bit of amusement.

Not a chance.

Chapter 13

A Fib on a Sunday

June 19, 1814

Michael sat across from his business partner and wondered how to broach the subject of the man’s newly ‘widowed’ daughter. He had provided a stack of carefully copied reports to Harold Waterford, knowing the man would read everything. Then the businessman would ask questions, especially if he thought some detail was overlooked.

“I do hope you weren’t adversely affected by the recent floods down here,” Michael said, deciding the information about Eloisa could wait a bit.

Harold shook his head. “We’re far enough away from the river here, but it was hard on those down by the Arun,” he admitted. “And it doesn’t help that some bastards are fencing off land and selling it so it’s not available for pasture,” he added gruffly. “Local folk will revolt, mark my words.”

Michael knew the man spoke the truth on that score. His father had complained about the very same thing just the night before. But Michael decided it was time he brought up the issue of Eloisa’s ‘dead husband’. “There’s been an ... unfortunate death recently,” he finally said, resisting the urge to squirm in his seat.

His business partner looked up from the report he was reading. “Are you referring to Huntington’s wife?” Harold countered, his brows furrowing. “Heard it was an awful fever.”

Startled by the mention of Arthur Huntington, Michael frowned. “Huntington’s wife died?” he asked, stunned by the news. Arthur was one of his sparring partners at Gentleman Jackson’s Salon. And my banker. “I hadn’t heard,” he said with a shake of his head. “I haven’t sparred in a week or more,” he added, wondering how long it had been since the woman’s death.

“He’s beside himself with grief. Poor man. Really loved his wife,” Harold commented as he returned his attention to the report. He glanced back up, though, when he realized Michael had meant a different death. “Who else died?
he asked then, sitting forward in his chair. A worried expression lined his face.

Michael took a deep breath. “Your daughter’s husband. William Smith,” he added, wondering if Eloisa had sent the announcement of his death to her parents. He hoped it would have been delivered to the house before he showed up, but given Mrs. Waterford’s happy nature on his arrival earlier that morning, he realized he had beaten the postal coach.

It was Harold Waterford’s turn to frown. “She’s not even married a month, and she’s already a widow?” he countered, his eyebrows furrowing into one long, white brow.

Nodding, Michael explained the officer’s situation to his business partner, secretly glad that at least Eloisa had done her part in letting her parents know that she had recently wed, and had done so with a marriage license. There wouldn’t have been time for a reading of the banns, a wedding and a death on the battlefield given she’d only been in London six weeks.

“A military man?” Harold Waterford questioned, one of his bushy eyebrows cocking in a most menacing manner. He stood up from his desk and began pacing the floor of the study. There was already a well worn path in the Aubusson carpet near the hearth where he had no doubt paced many times before.

Michael Cunningham gritted his teeth, realizing he had made a mistake in choosing the profession of Eloisa’s supposedly dead husband. “Infantry officer, actually,” Michael clarified, hoping that might help the situation. “Apparently, the man did not know he would be dispatched to the Continent when they wed, and, well, he died on a battlefield in Belgium shortly thereafter.”

Harold rolled his eyes and made a huffing sound. “That damned girl,” he stated, a bit of anger in his voice. “She’ll never come to any good,” he mumbled as his gnarled fingers gripped the back of his overlarge desk chair. “Why didn’t she just come back here?”

Biting his lip, Michael had to fight down the urge to argue with Eloisa’s father. After a moment, though, he thought it best to come to her defense. “Sir, your daughter is three-and-twenty. I believe she thought she was doing your family a favor by marrying,” he explained calmly, hoping he would not jeopardize his standing with the man with his comment. They had been doing business as partners now for over four years, and their joint ventures were profitable. He hoped on this trip to begin another.

“True enough, I suppose,” Harold agreed, taking his seat at his massive desk. “It’s just that ... well, she knows how disappointed I was when my son went off and joined the military ...”

Michael immediately thought of George, the young boy he had only ever seen at the other end of the dining table during meals. Master George couldn’t have been more than ten. “George has enlisted?” he asked, not bothering to hide his astonishment. He wondered if the boy would be relegated to playing a drum at the back of the regiment.

Harold snorted as he shook his head. “I was referring to Charles. My oldest. He’s .. twenty-five now, I suppose. I had high hopes for him, but he always wanted to be a military man. Been in the militia for at least as long as we’ve been partners,” he explained. The elder man shrugged. “I am proud of him now, of course, since he’s become an officer. Charles
earned
his commission,” Harold stated quite firmly. “I didn’t buy it for him, although I rather think he expected I might. He’s at Brighton and doing quite well,” he added wistfully, his eyes taking on a faraway look before he finally refocused them on Michael. “But back to my eldest daughter. I know I should not be involving you in this, but once the wife finds out, she will insist that I have someone in town look in on Eloisa – to be sure she is safe.” His face screwed up a bit as he considered something. “What’s become of her position as a governess?” the older man wondered suddenly. “Has she returned to it?”

Michael took a deep breath and reviewed in his mind what he and Eloisa had come up with as a back story to cover her unfortunate situation. “She has not. The position was already filled by another governess by the time she learned of her husband’s demise. Even so, it would not be proper for her ... she must honor the mourning period,” he said by way of explaining why she had not taken another position in service. “But do not despair,” he added as he leaned forward to place a hand on Harold’s desk. “As a widow of an officer, she’ll be receiving a pension. She will not be a burden to you,” he claimed in as calm a voice as possible.

Although Eloisa seemed to accept his self-appointed role as her protector, Michael knew the arrangement could only be temporary. At some point, he would have to find her a respectable husband. In nine or ten months.

About the same time Arthur Huntington would be out of mourning, he considered suddenly.

Stunned by the thought, he wondered if the two might suit. She was certainly younger than Arthur’s wife, by ten or fifteen years, but she was similar in appearance. Prettier, actually. Same height ... But he couldn’t think about that possible pairing at the moment; Harold was giving him a look that demanded his full attention.

“That is the least of my concerns,” the man replied quietly, his stance finally softening. He shook his head but was apparently satisfied with this last bit of news about his eldest daughter. “I can certainly afford to support her. And Olivia, for that matter,” he added, his eyes suddenly narrowing as he watched Michael. “And speaking of my youngest daughter. Just what are your intentions toward her?” he asked rather bluntly. “You’ve shown interest in the past. Are you still ...?” He allowed the question to trail off without finishing it, but he straightened in his chair as he made the query.

Shown interest in the past? Michael heard again in his head. He swallowed as he suddenly remembered his comment that any woman comfortable with speaking about gas extraction was a woman after his own heart. That was two years ago. He also recalled the comment Harold made in response. If she is willing, she is yours. Truth be told, he found himself more and more attracted to Olivia every time he returned to Shipley.

“Tell me. Is it true you promised your mother you would wed by the time you were eight-and-twenty?” Harold asked then, his eyebrow cocking with the inquiry. “I apologize, but I was at White’s last I was in town,” he said, as if that explained how he knew about the promise. “The betting book was getting a good deal of attention.”

Michael held his breath and nodded, annoyed that Harold knew of the entry in the betting book. He would rue the day he and Sir Richard made that wager regarding when he would marry. “I did make such a promise, yes,” he admitted, doing his best to keep his face impassive. “And I do intend to keep the promise, of course.”

Harold’s piercing blue eyes bored into him, and Michael found himself more than a bit uncomfortable. “But I hoped to see Mrs. Smith settled with a new husband ... so as to avoid any awkwardness,” he stammered, cursing as he tried to make excuses for himself. The reason he hadn’t yet asked for Olivia’s hand was because he wasn’t yet ready to be
thinking
about marriage, let alone
getting
married.

Harold sat back in his deep leather chair and regarded Michael, apparently knowing he had surprised the younger man with his insights. “And since Eloisa saw to her own matrimony, she is of no consequence to arrangements regarding her sister’s marriage,” he countered lightly.

Michael winced upon hearing Harold’s assessment. “Still, I would be more inclined to ask for Miss Olivia’s hand if I knew her elder sister was ...”

“As a widow, her sister will not be allowed to marry for some time. Let us make a deal,” Harold proposed suddenly, his hands clasping over his ample belly. “If you truly intend to marry my Olivia, I shall ensure that no other man is allowed to court her. She’ll be available for matrimony on the eve of your twenty-eighth birthday.”

Trying hard not to gasp or show a reaction that would offend the man, Michael nodded slowly. “I believe I would be amenable to such an ...”

“I realize you are probably expected to marry on par with your rank,” Harold interrupted, “But I hope that money – her dowry is quite substantial, I assure you – can serve in place of a title and lands,” he said in a voice that was much softer than Michael was used to hearing. “I may not be a member of the aristocracy, but I have done well with our business ventures as well as with some others I have been involved with in the past. My Olivia is dear to me, and I would like very much for you to be her husband.”

Stunned at the man’s comments, Michael allowed himself to appear so. “My
rank?
” he repeated, still trying to determine what Harold Waterford knew of his background. I’ve never divulged my lineage, he thought quickly. Never mentioned where I was from, or who my father is.

Harold Waterford smiled. He smiled, an expression that took at least ten years off his age and made him appear as friendly and as approachable as any man Michael had ever known.

“Your father and I knew each other as children, Michael,” he whispered conspiratorially. “I know what you stand to inherit, or not, because of that damned older brother of yours. I am most impressed that you work for what you have. You’re not some rake who is spending his inheritance in gaming hells and brothels like your brother Marcus does.”

Michael stared at the man, not sure how to respond. How did the man know that he didn’t frequent brothels or gamble to excess? He was wondering if Waterford had some spy following him when another thought struck him.

Perhaps Harold Waterford wanted his daughter to be a viscountess. Is that why he does business with me? he wondered.

The elder man noticed his discomfiture and leaned over the desk. “I do not give a flying fig if my daughter becomes a viscountess,” he intoned quietly. “I merely wish her to be happy.” He sat back in his deep leather chair and regarded Michael, knowing he had surprised the younger man with his insights.

Another moment of silence passed between them before Michael finally nodded. “If you truly know my father, then you will know that he is likely to outlive even me,” he said in reply, his lips thinning before he continued. “And you will also know that my mother and brother are displaying fine efficiency in depleting my father’s accounts,” he added with a heavy sigh. “Other than the entailed lands in Horsham, I am not counting on an inheritance. All I have is what we’ve made on these ventures. And a cottage in Crawley,” he explained quickly.

Harold cocked his head to one side. “Ah, Iron Creek,” he countered with an expression that suggested he was amused by Michael’s use of the term ‘cottage’ to describe the large country house. He was also thinking his business partner was shortchanging himself when it came to declaring his worth. “A self-made man is a far better match for my Olivia, I should think,” he added, his eyebrow lifting nearly into his wig’s hairline.

He knows about that, too? Michael thought, wondering if his business partner had hired someone to investigate him prior to Harold’s agreeing to do business with him. He certainly isn’t a social climber, though, Michael realized. And he doubted Olivia tended in that direction. “Then, I accept your offer,” Michael replied, holding out his right hand.

Harold Waterford took his hand and shook it once with a good deal of force. “Thank you. I should like very much for you to be part of the family someday. If for some reason it does not happen, I will at least know that I did my best to make it so.”

Michael nodded his understanding. “I will do my very best to make Olivia happy,” he said solemnly, a sense of immense relief settling over him.

With his choice of wife sorted and sure Harold Waterford would inform his daughter of their deal, Michael went back to business dealings and put thoughts of marriage in the back of his mind.

Harold, however, kept the news of his deal with Michael a secret from his daughter. And his wife.