‘She is young, Emerald. He could teach her about the world…’
‘I think she is more interested in what lies within the shops, Mama.’
‘Stop.’ Taris hated the impatience in his tone, but he had had enough. ‘If I choose to pursue an acquaintance with Lady Arabella it will be my business.’
‘She has a stable of lovely horses,’ his sister suddenly said.
‘I hope that Taris would not marry a woman for her horses, Lucy.’ Asher began to laugh.
‘Horses? Heirs? What of love?’ Emerald sounded angry and a silence followed.
‘I fail to see why my personal life cannot remain just that. My personal life.’ Taris wished he had not said anything as Lucy jumped in to illuminate him.
‘It’s because of Mrs Bassingstoke, Taris. You seem more interested in her than you ever have been in anyone before. And she is clever and strong and most intriguing…’
‘Bassingstoke?’ His mother turned the name on her tongue and then repeated it. ‘Not the Bassingstokes of the railway fortune? Lord. The husband had some sort of apoplexy three years ago and his wife was the one who looked after him.’
‘Was it a bad attack, Mama?’ Lucy asked the question, her voice low and horrified.
‘Indeed, my dear, it was, and his good wife did everything for him until he died a few months ago.’
‘She loved him,’ Lucy said, and Emerald’s answering laugh of disbelief made Taris turn away.
Love or hate, the dependence of the man must have taken a toll on Beatrice-Maude. For three whole long and lonely years?
Complete blindness would have its own need of dependency too. His hands fisted at his sides.
If he were honourable he would walk away from Beatrice and allow her to lead the sort of life that she had never had.
Freedom. How often had she said that? And meant it.
Chapter Ten
When she awoke Beatrice was sick for the third morning in a row and she tried to think what it was she had been eating lately that should make her feel this way. She always felt better by lunchtime and the malady seemed to be like no other, as with a little food she began to feel instantly better.
Perhaps it was the fattiness of the pork pies that she had started to take a liking to. She decided that she would not nibble at another piece, no matter how her body craved it.
She was suddenly thankful that Taris Wellingham had not stayed to see her in this state, and pleased as well that so far this morning her maid Sarah had not appeared.
A small respite. A little reprieve for she also knew that the servants’ chatter would have alerted Sarah to the unusual fact of an overnight guest.
Drawing up the sheets on the bed, Bea tidied the room so that it was not quite so apparent as to what had been going on. She was an older woman, for goodness’ sake, and should have been long past this…licentiousness.
Unexpectedly she began to smile.
Would she see Taris tonight at the Cannons’ Ball? She knew that he was going for they had discussed it. Lord, what exactly should she say to him—what manner of words might sound even vaguely correct after such a liaison?
She shook her head and determined to stop overthinking things. Taris Wellingham was a friend. There could be nothing else between them and he had never, even in the most intimate of embraces, given her any cause to believe otherwise.
She was a barren widow; as a man who could have any woman he wanted, that woman almost certainly would not be her.
She should begin to go through her papers to keep her mind off things, she thought, and resolved to stop dwelling on matters that would never be and start focussing on what was.
A little after three in the afternoon, while Bea was sitting in the library reading a new book that had caught her eye, a footman came in.
‘There is a man who says he was your lawyer, madam. In Ipswich, he says, and he asked if you would speak to him for a moment?’ Handing over a card that was engraved with the name James Radcliff, the footman stood quietly.
‘If you will show him through, Thomas, I will see him in here.’
‘Very well, madam. Should I send one of the maids in with refreshments?’
‘No. I do not think so.’ All her dealings with any of Frankwell’s lawyers had always ended in difficulty and the years of very little ‘allowed’ money still rankled. ‘I am certain that this will only take a few minutes.’
Radcliff was dressed very fashionably as he made his way towards her, his height giving him an appearance of almost gaunt thinness. He sported a small moustache, meant, she thought, to cover the thinness of his lips. He spoke with an accent that Beatrice could not quite determine.
‘Thank you for allowing me this meeting, Mrs Bassingstoke. I realise that it is most impolite of me to simply come to you like this, but I have only the smallest amount of time in London.’
‘Indeed?’ She could not understand why he was here and her perplexity suddenly seemed to communicate itself to him.
‘Oh, I am very sorry. I shall come to the point immediately. I worked for Mr Nelson in Ipswich during the difficult years of your husband’s illness, and was never quite certain as to the legality of that firm’s stance on the lack of finances that you seemed beleaguered with.’
Bea’s interest sharpened. Most of the Bassingstoke money had been returned to her before she had made the journey south, but according to the few records she did have there had been a shortfall. Her own desire to keep well away from the legal fraternity had put paid to the idea of having someone look into the discrepancies, yet today here in her very own home was a man who might explain them.
‘You say you worked for Mr Nelson?’
‘I gave in my resignation as soon as I realised the calibre of his practice, for as the son of a gentleman I could no longer condone what I saw there. I was a junior clerk, ma’am, and was seldom allowed to do anything of real value because of my inexperience, you understand.’
The whites of his knuckles showed through the taut skin as he wrenched his hands together, and Bea’s eyes flicked to the closed door. It was not done, of course, for a woman to be alone with a man and a strange man at that, but the very nature of his confession was beguiling.
‘I felt sure that some of the margins were not quite right, Mrs Bassingstoke, for I had seen a few things when I was not supposed to.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘If I were to have a guess, I would say that some of your revenue was missing and were I to hazard another guess I would say the monies were almost certainly embezzled by Mr Nelson.’
‘And you have proof?’
He blushed again and shook his head. ‘That is part of the reason I have come today, Mrs Bassingstoke. A friend of mine was at a discussion on the ills of piracy that you held a few weeks back and when he told me of your being here in London I decided that perhaps fate had sent me a message. I hoped that the missing numbers might lurk in the ledgers sent to you.’
‘Ledgers, Mr Radcliff?’ She could not remember seeing any such books.
‘Books released to you on the death of your husband? Bound in brown leather, I think, and stamped with the Nelson name.’
Beatrice frowned. ‘I do not recall any such thing.’
‘Perhaps they slipped into your possession unnoticed.’ His eyes glanced around the overfull shelves