Society's Beauties: Mistress at Midnight / Scars of Betrayal. Sophia James

Surely, as his wife, you did very well on his death?’

      Again she remained quiet.

      ‘I can hear it from you, Aurelia, or I can instruct my lawyers to look into my cousin’s accounts. I would prefer it if you told me.’

      After a few seconds she began to speak, softly at first, but then gaining in volume. ‘My husband’s estate was mortgaged up to the hilt. I have been trying to pay back the creditors I personally took food and services from ever since he died.’

      Suddenly he understood. ‘With the money gained from silk?’ Lord, why had he not guessed? She had worn the same serviceable dress nearly every time he had met her and the gifts of jewellery from Charles which Nat had spoken of were never anywhere in sight. Today, even the pendant he had seen about her neck every other time he had met her was gone. Unwillingly, he supposed. Her fingers had crept to her throat on several occasions during the conversation, dropping to her sides when they discovered the loss. Had she pawned the piece for quick cash?

      ‘There are two mills in Macclesfield and the warehouse here in Park Street. The trade is beginning to be profitable and will continue to stay so if I can only…’ She petered out, the words simply stopping on her tongue.

      ‘Keep your father’s state of health a secret?’

      The shock in her eyes was underlined by fear as she stepped back. He had the feeling that she might have been planning to simply walk out of the door, but had then thought better of it, choosing instead to defend herself with words.

      ‘A lord contemplating jumping from a cliff to solve the problems of the world that ailed him might be perceived by any business partners as a risk.’

      ‘Touché!’

      He tried to keep his tone light, an airy unconcern visible, but underneath another truth rose into life. She would sacrifice herself for her father and for her family and if anyone got in her way…?

      ‘You would spread such a lie?’

      ‘It depends on whether you interpret my father’s sickness as influenza or dementia.’

      An ultimatum of protection. There was some damned fine sense of poignancy in such a stance and in his line of business it had been a while since he had met another who might do the same.

      She knew she had made a mistake as soon as he drew back, but there was nothing she could do about any of it. He would hate her now, that much at least was obvious, the lighter play between them dissolved in the message of her threat.

       Ruin me and I will ruin you!

      She loathed herself for even thinking to use such a warning and yet the faces of those she supported came to mind: Papa, Leonora, Harriet and Prudence, and John with his wife Mary.

      And in Paris…Aurelia shook her head. No, she would not dwell on this now, a man who seemed to read her very mind standing before her.

      Twenty-six and forever adrift from society.

      ‘If it is money you need…’

      She broke into his words even before he had finished them, unwilling to hear the offer. ‘I need only your confidence, Lord Hawkhurst.’ The dog growled at her tone.

      ‘Then you have it.’ His words were clipped short and he was gone even before she had time to answer. As the door shut behind him, Aurelia closed her eyes. He had looked at her as if she were…unknown, the undercurrents between them disappearing into simple loathing. The ache of it stabbed quick for in the nights after everyone had found their beds and the moon was high she had dreamed there might be something finer, something real and right and true. As she shook her head hard, the betrayal of hope was a timely reminder of why she had not sought out the company of others in the years since Charles’s accident.

      The shaped sharp end of the oak branch had pointed upwards, all the intentions of death in its careful placement. The brush before the jump had been so precisely angled, hiding everything, and she had been most vigilant in shielding John from the heavy hand of the law when it was determined he was the last person to be seen in the vicinity. The questions had come, of course, but the true answers had been lost in the interim, clues to the truth gone for ever and only conjecture left.

      Sitting at the table, she unlocked a drawer at the very bottom of her desk and drew out a pouch of leather wrapped in silk. She knew that Lord Hawkhurst had not been here for a casual or idle chat; she had seen it in his stance and heard it in all the things he had not said.

       ‘Ahh, mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que je fais maintenant?’

       Oh, my God, what should I do now?

      Drawing out the newest missive from Paris, Aurelia understood the need to be even more careful than she usually was when she passed the letter on.

      She remembered Sylvienne’s wide and frightened eyes when they had last met in Paris, the furtive looks across her shoulder as her mother had explained she did not feel safe.

      Freddy Delsarte had been there, of course, his own brand of cunning gleaming in his eyes, the secrets of the daughter of a well-respected and wealthy English gentleman pointing to a lucrative blackmail.

      Another responsibility. A further problem. Aurelia felt as though she was a tightrope walker poised on a thin rope above chaos and despair.

       Chapter Eight

      Aurelia met Stephen Hawkhurst in the library in Bond Street on Tuesday morning, almost falling over him as she rounded one aisle. His height and strength in the smallness of Hookham’s seemed out of place here, a warrior amidst the formality of Society’s quieter pursuits.

      She wished she had worn her light blue dress, as even to her own uncritical eye the black bombazine did her skin little favour. Pushing such ridiculous vanity aside, she waited, for after their conversation at Park Street there could be little he wanted to say to her ever again.

      ‘I hope your father’s influenza is abating, Mrs St Harlow.’

      So that was how he would play it. She felt her cheeks flush red. ‘Indeed it is, my lord.’ Her hands clutched a book of flowers drawn as lithographs on to thin tissue and further afield she noticed a couple of women looking their way.

      Nay, his way, she amended, their expressions having the same sort of interest she had perceived on most of the female guests at his ball.

      When he beckoned her to follow him towards the end of the room she went uncertainly, pleased that the onlookers were blocked from her view by a tall shelf.

      ‘I have been giving the…situation with your father some thought.’

      Shaking her head, she turned to leave, but he caught her arm and held it, the grip of his fingers allowing her to go nowhere.

      ‘Could you speak with your cousin and gain his approval in ensuring your family’s living situation is more stable? Surely if such a thing were to leave you destitute the man might consider such an action.’

      ‘Or he might throw us out tomorrow.’

      ‘He seems reasonable enough.’

      ‘You have checked up on him?’ Horror and anger made her voice rise a good few octaves.

      ‘Mr James Beauchamp has a name for being a fair and equitable man.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘He is also a friend of Rodney Northrup’s.’

      ‘One can be a respected man or a beloved friend and still have a penchant for that which has never been enjoyed.’

      ‘From where I stand there seems more than enough to share and I am certain your family would be relieved to see you at home a little more often.’

      ‘No.’