“Lady Winterset.” Mr. Cadwallender clasped her hand in his and met her gaze directly. “I beg you not to make a hasty decision. Please give me the opportunity to further plead my case. I assure you, you will not regret it.”
She stared into his earnest, hazel eyes. Very nice eyes really that struck her as quite trustworthy, even if that might be due as much to his fervor as anything else. Still, there was no need to make a decision today.
“Very well, Mr. Cadwallender.” She smiled and withdrew her hand. “I shall give your proposal due consideration.”
“Thank you,” he said with relief. “Perhaps I can arrange for a higher advance as well. May I call on you again in a day or two to discuss it further?”
“Of course.”
“Again, you have my gratitude.” He smiled and his eyes lit with pleasure, very nice eyes in a more than ordinarily handsome face. “I am confident, Lady Winterset, this is the beginning of a profitable relationship for us both.” With that, he nodded and took his leave, offering a polite bow of greeting to her friends who entered the parlor as he left.
“I can see why you are late,” Veronica, Lady Smithson, said in a wry manner, her gaze following the publisher. “I would certainly forgo tea with my friends for a liaison with a man like that.”
“It was not a liaison,” Julia said firmly.
“Still, he is quite dashing, isn’t he?” Portia, Lady Red-well, craned her neck to see past the parlor door and into the entry hall. “If one likes fair hair and broad shoulders …” Her gaze jerked back to the other women, a telltale blush washing over her face. “Not that I do. Although, of course, what woman wouldn’t? That is to say …” She raised her chin. “One can appreciate art without being in the market for a painting. That’s what I meant.”
“Yes, of course you did,” Veronica said in an absent manner, her attention again on Julia, much to Portia’s obvious relief.
Of the three widows, Portia was the most concerned with propriety. Veronica had, on more than one occasion, observed privately that it was those who walked the narrowest paths that were the most likely to plunge over a cliff when the opportunity presented itself. Fortunately for Portia, or unfortunately in Veronica’s view, Portia had yet to so much as peer over the edge of a cliff.
For that matter, neither had Julia. But she had discovered a great deal about herself since her husband’s death. Her character was far stronger than she had imagined. One did what one had to do to survive in this world. As for propriety, while she had always considered herself most proper in both behavior and manner, it was no longer as important as it once was.
“If it wasn’t a liaison,” Veronica continued, “which, I might add, is a very great pity as surely Portia agrees, given that she is an excellent judge of art …” Portia offered her friends a weak smile. “Who was he and what sort of profitable relationship is he confident about?”
Julia narrowed her eyes. “How much of the conversation did you hear?”
“Not nearly enough.” Veronica breezed farther into the room, settled on the sofa, and began taking off her gloves. “You should call for tea.”
“I thought we were to have tea at Fenwick’s?” Julia said slowly.
“We were.” Portia moved past Julia and seated herself beside Veronica. The three women had first met several years ago at the reading room at Fenwick and Sons Booksellers, which did seem to attract young widows who had little else to occupy their time. Indeed, it had become something of a unofficial club for ladies, as well as the home of the loosely organized Ladies Literary Society. It was Veronica who had suggested to the elder Mr. Fenwick or perhaps one of the sons—as they were all of an indeterminate age, somewhat interchangeable, and nearly impossible to tell apart—that the reading room could prove profitable by simply offering refreshments. Although Veronica had never admitted it, Julia suspected her suggestion had carried with it financial incentive. It would not surprise Julia to learn Veronica was now a part owner of Fenwick and Sons. “But you failed to appear at the appointed time.”
Julia glanced at the clock. “I am scarcely half an hour late.”
“Yes, but while Veronica and I are rarely on time, you are always punctual.” Portia pinned her with a firm look. “Your note said you had something of importance to discuss. When you did not appear, we were naturally concerned.”
Julia folded her arms over her chest. “You were naturally curious.”
“Regardless.” Veronica studied her closely. “It was concern that compelled us to fly to your rescue.” She raised a brow. “Tea?”
“Of course,” Julia murmured and stepped out of the room to direct Daniels to have tea prepared. She would have much preferred to have had refreshments at Fen-wick’s rather than here. It wasn’t that she did not like her modest home, it was simply not as grand as either Portia’s or Veronica’s. As such it pointed out the vast differences between her life and that of her friends. Now, as she often had in the past, she marveled that they had become friends at all.
At first it seemed the three women had nothing in common save that they were all of a similar age and their respective widowhoods had begun at very nearly the same time. Veronica’s husband had been involved in the sort of financial dealings open only to those of great family wealth. Portia’s had been a literary sort, something of a scholar from what she had said. And Julia’s husband had been engaged in the practice of law. Three years ago, their husbands had died within months of each other of accident or illness or mishap. That they had forged a true friendship was attributable only to the whims of fate and perhaps the fact that they had met at a time when each needed a friend who was neither a relation nor considered them an obligation. And now they had come to rescue her.
Julia fetched her great-grandmother’s manuscript from the library and returned to the parlor. She took a seat, keeping the memoirs on her lap. “This is what I wished to discuss with you.”
Veronica eyed the stack of papers curiously. “And what, may I ask, is it?”
Portia sniffed. “It doesn’t look very interesting.”
“Appearances, my dear Portia, are often deceiving.” Julia drew a deep breath. “Do you recall my telling you that my grandmother’s brother died oh, about six months ago?”
Portia brightened. “And you have at last received an inheritance? Monies that will allow you to take care of the responsibilities that should have rightfully been his?”
“Yes, and no.” Julia shook her head. “His property went to a relative so distant I was not even aware of his existence. As for money, well, it seems he had none to speak of.”
“Of course not.” Portia’s expression hardened. “Vile creature.” Portia could not understand a family not caring for its own. Her parents had died when she was very young and her aunt and uncle had taken her in.
“This”—Julia laid her hand on the manuscript—“is my inheritance. It was left to my mother by my great-grandmother. For reasons unknown to me, although I have my suspicions, my great-uncle kept it in his possession.”
“And now that it is rightfully yours, what—” Veronica paused to allow a maid to enter with a tea cart then take her leave. She waited until the door closed to continue. “Now, what is it?”
“These are my great-grandmother’s memoirs.”
Portia sighed with disappointment. “Oh yes, that is interesting.”
“Julia,