He narrowed his eyes at her. “I will contact Lord Rascomb personally to verify the veracity of this claim. Where might I find you?”
Oh, she was loath to tell him where she stayed, but fine. She jotted down her address—the Strawbridge Hotel, a small but luxurious inn she liked from her last sojourn in London—and returned the paper to him. “When might I expect your summons?”
“Summons?” he repeated, his voice very nearly mocking.
“Unless you want to be seen calling on a shocking American widow who might be forging the name of a Peer of the Realm.” She used an exaggerated voice to say the last part. Just to show him how American she really was, and how that hierarchy didn’t apply to her.
“Business is business,” he said.
She chewed her lip, wondering if that were really true. That much was true in her experience—in New York. She helped her husband with his ledgers for years, and no one questioned when she showed up in offices with them, explaining how she’d taken over secretarial duties for him after his apoplexy. Why? Because business was business. But here, in London, they had this strange class order that mattered more than money. Reputations were made generations before, and could be lost in a moment.
To Prudence, all the bowing and scraping seemed exhausting. She liked the clean clear negotiations she’d conducted. She liked the agreements brokered not because they had a certain last name, but because they had the land or the money, or the need. In Minnesota, more than one woman owned her own establishment outright, since there weren’t enough men to stick around and maintain the facilities needed. Though, such an establishment could be taken over at a moment’s notice by a man, if she weren’t careful.
“Business is business,” she echoed. This was silly. She was wasting far too much time on a man who clearly thought she was beneath him. “I’ll wait to hear from you then. Good day.” She twirled on her heel and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Was it a slam? Not really. Enough that her mother wouldn’t have yelled at her for it, but was it still too loud? Yes.
Did she regret slamming the door on Mr. Moon? Not one bit.
*
LEO LOWERED HISforehead to his desk, letting the cool wood work against his hot skin. Bloody hell. He took a minute to breathe and calm the ache that had now spread to his entire lower body. He’d overheard the woman’s conversation with his mother. The bit about looking for a man to woo her, to seduce her, and then seeing the honey-haired American beauty walk through his study door robbed him of all words and decency.
Normally he had so much self-control that there was an excess. Should he have been eavesdropping on his mother? Of course not. But he had never heard a woman so explicitly say she was looking for a lover her own age. Who said such things aloud?
But it wasn’t the first time he’d had to fetch a visitor from his mother. The old woman made a habit of taking his callers, reducing them to tears or bringing them to blows, then foisting them off on him, saying the visitors had been the ones ill-behaved.
Leo would like to blame his mother for his trouble conducting himself this morning. And the sunlight, as well. For as Mrs. Cabot entered his room, the sun had clung to her, making her hair glimmer and shine in a way that dazzled. But could he blame the sun?
Perhaps he could blame it on Mrs. Cabot herself. For he’d never met a person—not a single one—who hadlaughedduring a conversation with his mother. And for all his mother’s rudeness, Mrs. Cabot kept her patience, her candor, and her calm demeanor.I would like to know what it would be like to find a completely inappropriate man to woo me.
What did she deem inappropriate? He’d hurried back to his study and sent his footman up to guide Mrs. Cabot wherever she cared to go—whether to finish her business with him or flee the premises. He would have understood either.
But then she came in here, as he was working very hard on not thinking about the open invitation to become this woman’s lover. True, he’d not been invited specifically. In fact, she’d said that she didn’t think he was thewooing type. Was anyone?
Breathe. There were plenty of things to do that didn’t concern Mrs. Cabot and wooing. Or picturing her with a much older husband. He shuddered. How did young girls do it? He knew plenty of them did, for various reasons. Mostly obligation, it seemed.
He shook his head to clear the thoughts of Mrs. Cabot’s bedroom habits. He was relabeling his file cabinets. Part of his dealings as a private banker was secrecy. He was trained in law, but specialized in money. Why? Because money was what made the world turn. A man could have social power, generational power, but the days of those were waning. Look at the Americans, for God’s sake. It was money that brought the Confederacy to its knees. Starving soldiers couldn’t fight.
But Leo didn’t have the temperament for social power. He didn’t have the family for generational power. His knack for numbers and the training of the law meant he could move mountains with capital, and that was where his power lay.
Which was precisely what Lord Rascomb asked him to do. Of course, when he’d initially agreed to keep the books for this enterprise, he’d agreed to do sopro bono. He’d thought this would be like many ladies’ societies, where there might bea few fundraisers, then eventually the members would marry, the society would dissolve, the money might be donated to an orphanage or the women’s hospital, and they would enter a life of domesticity. It required a few meetings a year, entered him into the good graces of a respected aristocrat, and was well worth the trouble.
Leo never expected Miss Bridewell to actually climb a mountain. But then, after the planning and budgeting, they had. The budget had predictably gone over. With so many wealthy women, it was surprising that the excess wasn’t more. In his experience, the wealthy were prone to overspending because they weren’t accustomed to the harsh realities of having nothing left over. Women even more so, given they were not often privy to the exact income of their husbands.
Mr. Tristan Bridewell had warned Leo early on not to underestimate his sister. Or her plans. So Leo dutifully attended the meetings with his ledger to keep them on track. Would he deny that he was instantly attracted to the American widow? No, of course not. He had eyes, after all. Was he taken by her accent? Of course. Shocked by the toothsome grins that appeared for no reason? Naturally.
But did it make London seem less gray when she was around? Also, yes.
Leo lifted his head, aware that he may have the desk’s decorative edging imprinted on his forehead. The ache subsided. Work. He had three appointments this afternoon to prepare for, and his file system had grown again. This was a good thing, as it meant business was continually growing.
Still, he used his Morse code system, disguised as floral artistry, to label the drawers of ledgers and contracts. While yes, one could just open a drawer and find what one needed eventually, this would require time. And the files were not in alphabetical order, but in birthdate order of his clientele,notated in an alphanumeric cypher. The client birthdates were listed in a ledger in a hidden compartment of his locked desk drawer.
After he finished his new labels and slid them into place on the drawer fronts, he pulled the Ladies’ Alpine Society file. In it was the accounting ledger, pertinent documents, and most importantly, signatures. He compared them to the letter that Mrs. Cabot produced. They were identical. Still, he sent a note to Lord Rascomb, asking to call upon him at his earliest convenience.
One couldn’t be too careful when money was involved. Disguises and trickery were employed often enough to smooth over outright theft. If anything, Leo’s job was the security of his clients’ funds.
He looked out his window at the sturdy oak tree. He clocked his seasons by that tree. Examined its gnarled bark. Watched its feathery and furred inhabitants year-round. He celebrated when eggs hatched. Laughed when a squirrel lost its footing, congratulated the rodent when it held an acorn in its jaws.
Today he stared through it. Tonight he could relieve himself of this burden. Give himself permission to picture Prudence Cabot as she might receive a lover her own age. Think of that honey-blonde hair wound about his fingers, silky and soft. About her laughter dissolving into quick pleasure-filled huffs.
