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After they were settled and the meal had been served, Bridget studied him. “I have this feeling you intend to find me a husband as soon as we reach London.”
“Not as soon as. I might wait a day or two.” His green eyes twinkled with mirth, but she did not think it funny.
“This project is near and dear to my heart. Papa was in favor of it and would have funded it, had he lived.”
“So you say. The man’s dead, so he cannot dispute it.”
Losing her temper would not gain her favor, so like a good little girl, she tamped down her anger. “May I at least elaborate on why I wish to open a house for women?”
Lord Campbell wiped his mouth with his serviette, then tossed it alongside his plate. He leaned back in the chair, his thumbs inserted into the pockets of his waistcoat. “Go on.”
“There are many women—everywhere, I am sure—but definitely in London, who suffer at the hands of their husbands. Or other men who are not their husbands but who have control over them.”
The image of Minerva—Lady Davenport—the last time Bridget had seen her alive, with bruises over her entire body, two swollen eyes, and a split lip jumped to the front of her mind. Yes, she had been a schoolmate and married well, according to Society. Except Lord Davenport had kept secret what he’d done to her when the ton wasn’t looking.
“I was very close to one schoolmate who suffered.”
He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Was she badly injured?”
She looked him in the face. “She died.”
He sucked in air through his teeth and leaned back. “How did she die?”
Bridget swallowed a few times to bring herself under control. “She accidentally fell down a flight of stairs. Two days after taking a horrific beating.”
Lord Campbell shook his head. “I don’t care who the man was, if he committed such an atrocity, he should be hanged.”
“He was—is—a peer. His wife’s death was ruled an accident, and the coroner ignored the bruises all over her body.”
“Davenport.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
So Lord Campbell was familiar with Minerva’s husband. “You know him?”
“I do. And a more vile individual does not exist. I’ve heard stories about him, and he is not an honorable man.”
Bridget let out a breath. At least she didn’t have to fight him on this issue.
“However, as I mentioned before, like it or no, under the law, a woman belongs to her husband, giving him the right to demand she return to his home if she leaves.”
“Not if he can’t find her,” she said. “If necessary, I will hire a very strapping footman to monitor the door.”
“Even if you purchase this house—that husbands can’t find—do you intend to support it indefinitely?”
She shook her head. “Most of the women I expect to make use of the facility are earning their own money. When they obtain shelter, they could continue working to support themselves.”
Lord Campbell ran his fingers through his hair. “While this is all quite noble, and I commend you for your desire to help those in need, the fact still remains that your father’s will does not allow you to obtain the money until your twenty-third birthday.”
She leaned on her elbow, smiled up at him, and twirled a lock of hair that had fallen from her bonnet. “I am hoping you can find a way around that.” She hated using feminine wiles and depending on a man to do what she desperately wanted. But that was the way of the world. One day, that would change, she was sure of it. But until then, she had to use what was available to her.
He leaned forward, a slight smile on his face. “It won’t work, you know.”
“What?” Drat! One would think the rake in Lord Campbell would easily succumb to a bit of feminine manipulation.
“Trying to break the will. As I promised, I will visit with my solicitor when we arrive in London.” He stood and held out his hand to assist her up. “I still think the best answer to your dilemma is to marry well and have your husband direct the funds to wherever he deems appropriate.”
So much for attempting to win over the blackguard by being honest and pleasant. He may not have realized it, but he’d just declared war.
A war she fully intended to win.
