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

she take a risk and go? She had heard rumours that Stephen Hawkhurst worked for the British Service though nothing had ever been confirmed. Perhaps he had come snooping because of the money she sent to France. Or perhaps he had something to tell her about the entailment of Braeburn House? The cold fear of discovery was choking and she knew it would be better to face him in private and alone than in some crowded soirée.

      ‘I will need ten minutes before I could accompany you.’ Aurelia was glad her voice sounded steady.

      ‘Very well, ma’am.’

      When he left she stood, the ridge of fur on Caesar’s back raised in warning, his growls subsiding at his departure. ‘I wish you could come…’ she whispered and threw him a bone from a box beneath her desk. As the hound set down to the task of gnawing on it Aurelia crossed to the mirror in the small back room.

      In the silvered reflection she looked both tired and shocked, her eyes uncannily like those of her mother’s. Pinching her cheeks to try to produce some colour, she reached in habit for the pendant at her throat and stopped. No, it had gone, too, in the pretence and the deceit. There was nothing left to protect her family with but her wiles and her willpower.

      Her coat hung on a hook by the door and as she pulled each button through she counted. Eight buttons. One for every year since she had met Charles St Harlow at the Redmonds’ ball in Clarence Street. Eight years since she had been truly happy. Eight years since she had slept all through a night and woken in the morning with dreams that had made her smile.

      The peal of the bells from the nearby church were loud as she came into the wind and with her head held high she allowed Hawkhurst’s man to help her into the conveyance.

      He should not see Aurelia St Harlow alone and so late in the day, but he wanted to look into her eyes as he asked her his questions, and know the truth. She had been seen today in the company of both the French doctor and Freddy Delsarte. He knew that if Shavvon were cognisant of such associations she would have already been brought in for questioning, such was the power of the Government’s uneasiness over foreign collaborators.

      His own desires and needs were another factor entirely, though he had never been a man to put himself first. But he was disconcerted by the blood in him that raced with possibility when everything about such a reaction was wrong.

      He heard the carriage and stood, cursing a rising need.

      ‘Mrs St Harlow, my lord,’ Wilson introduced her and left, shutting the door behind himself firmly. Hawkhurst had already given orders that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances and their relationship was such that he knew his instructions would be obeyed to the letter.

      The heat from a well-stoked fire fell across the room and he watched as she unbuttoned her coat, her fingers shaking with the effort. After the heavy outer shell was discarded she carefully laid it upon the sofa beside her. In the silken lining he caught the same rows of stitched repair that seemed evident in all of her apparel.

      ‘Thank you for coming.’

      Her countenance was pale and drawn. When he indicated a chair to one side of the room she moved towards it, but did not sit. Her hands were gloveless and she wore no hat. ‘Would you like a drink?’

      ‘I seldom partake of any alcohol, my lord,’ she returned, the formal edge on her words unnerving and her voice low.

      ‘Wise,’ he echoed as he emptied his own glass for the third time in as many minutes. ‘You will excuse me for displaying no such abstinence.’

      The slight nod of her head made him turn, her nose tip-tilted against the fire’s flame and her dimples deep even when she did not smile. No wonder her cousin had offered her marriage in so short a time. Alfred had made it known that there had been many others vying for Aurelia Beauchamp’s hand in her first Season and society had been as shocked as her father when she had chosen the self-indulgent Charles.

      His cousin had whisked her from London the day of the wedding and she had not returned until her court appearance three years later, a devoted wife wrapped in widow’s weeds and a hefty dose of sorrow.

      For just a moment Stephen hardly knew where to begin. ‘I could order tea if you would rather?’ The quick shake of her head stopped him, so instead he tried another tack. ‘How long have you worked in the Park Street warehouse?’

      The spark in her eyes told him she had been expecting just such a question. ‘Nearly four years. The mills at Macclesfield had lain vacant for a long time and I made use of them again. The warehouse here is the London base for the business.’

      ‘And some of your silks come in from France?’

      ‘Yes. With the lifting of import duties it is often cheaper to bring the hand-loomed silks in as an adjunct to what we can weave.’

      ‘So you have contact with the traders in Paris?’

      She hesitated before nodding. ‘I do. Is there some problem with that, my lord?’

      ‘No problem at all. Curiosity is just one of my many faults.’

      ‘Somehow I doubt that. Palmerston has the thought that all citizens with some link to France must be traitors.’

      ‘You make it a point to understand politics?’

      ‘I try to. The tariffs for the silk trade here are hefty, yet France enjoys little government intervention. Without a good knowledge of the changing pattern of the new bills and laws, my margins would suffer.’

      Despite himself he laughed. ‘My cousin could barely string a thought together about anything other than himself or fashion. How did he ever end up with a woman like you?’

      A flash of panic crossed her face. ‘I realise it is a difficult thing to understand, but I am trying to build a life again, my lord, trying to fashion a better existence for my family.’

      ‘Why did you meet with Delsarte today, Aurelia?’

      Anger whipped up fire in her eyes. ‘You have had me followed?’

      ‘England’s safety comes with good intelligence.’

      ‘Your man has poor skills, then. I spotted him both at the hospital and in the street.’

      ‘Perhaps he wished to be seen.’

      ‘Because you would warn me…?’ Her question wavered into silence. The material in her ugly gown caught the lamplight and one of the ties at her throat was loosened so that the bodice hung away from her skin.

      Dipping into his pocket, he brought forth the pendant he had located in a pawnshop two days ago. The look of surprise on her face had him reaching for her gloveless hand. Her skin felt hot and smooth as he placed the bauble within her palm and closed her fingers around it.

      ‘It looked like a family heirloom. I thought perhaps you had lost it?’

      A shake of her head brought him the truth. ‘I sold it to pay the Davies stables for the rent of their carriage on a Monday. It was my grandmother’s.’

      Her teeth worried her bottom lip and for just a moment Hawk thought she might begin to cry. But Aurelia St Harlow was thankfully made of sterner stuff.

      ‘You think me a traitor and yet you paid for the restoration of my pendant?’

      ‘I am old enough to realise the world does not deal in only black and white and that grey is a colour subject to much interpretation. I would like to hear how it is you know Delsarte?’

      ‘He was a friend of my husband’s. He came religiously to the parties at Medlands. He is also an opium addict.’

      Shocking. He could see it in her face, the crawl of truth and the caution of betrayal.

      ‘Were you at these parties?’

      ‘Once. The first night. Before I understood exactly…’

      She did not go on, the silence about them pulsing with intent.