She’d meticulously counted her fifteen hundred pounds, arranging the fivers, tenners, and even twenty-pound banknotes across the blue-scrolled counterpane on her bed. Seeing the bundle soothed her. The prospect of security, respectability, and independence—now literally within her grasp—cheered her. The act of totting up her wealth became a compulsion, and Eliza couldn’t help but fondle the money she kept stashed atop her wardrobe.
Each precious note read‘Bank of England’, which had issued into circulation the currency upon which her life depended. It all reminded her of Mark, an intelligent and important, man born into an old and noble family, who’d ascended to the pinnacle of his career, and he was not yet forty!
Sir Mark van Bergen was the sort of bloke girls dreamed of. Yet he’d whiskedheraway in a fine carriage, given her pretty clothes to borrow, and put a roof over her head. Although Eliza could provide for herself with her stolen fortune, theirs was a friendship she would cherish long after this interlude had ended.
She returned her wallet to its hiding place, and then went in search of Mark. Eliza didn’t mind when he went to work at the Bank, for a man had to earn his living, but she would miss his presence at the dinner table tonight. She longed to spend a few minutes with him before he left.
She passed by his bedchamber door, spying over the open threshold to discover him dressing. An electric lamp illuminated the space. The soft light through its amber shade cast his tall, handsome figure in a burnished glow. His attractive, patrician profile was turned to admire the cut of his evening clothes in the mirror.
When Mark saw her studying him, he called to her, “You may come in, Eliza. No need to be shy.” He gestured to a servant’s reflection in the glass. “This is Cabot, my valet. He keeps me presentable.”
She nodded to the man.
Cabot returned her greeting in kind.
The valet moved swiftly and almost silently throughout the room, fetching golden cufflinks, collar buttons, shirt studs, and a white silk tie from a nearby chest of drawers. Of course, Mark was no tailor’s dummy standing idle. The two men worked in efficient harmony to turn him out for his Bank dinner.
Eliza observed the process while she investigated Mark’s decor. Against one wall, there stood a brass-knobbed double bed flanked by a pair of wooden bedside tables. Across from that was a wardrobe and chest of drawers. A framed mirror hung over the carved mantel, and some old family photographs were lovingly placed around the space.
It was a cozily masculine domain boasting smokey, cinnamon-colored wallpaper and a matching eiderdown counterpane draped across the mattress. His bed was topped with crisp, clean sheets and soft, fluffy pillows.
Eliza perched at the foot of the brass bed. She’d never felt anything more comfortable than this plush, feather tick. She practically sank into the stuffing! Mark’s mattress was a far cry from the coffin-beds and twopenny hangovers that she’d been fortunate to rent on nights when her ‘take’ had been exceptionally lucrative.
She bounced her backside on the springs before addressing his handsome reflection in the mirror. “Cor blimey! With a bed like this, I reckon you never wake up stiff!”
He smiled. “There’s nothing better than a good rest after a long workday. Proper mattresses, pillows, and linens are important investments—remember that when you furnish your own lodgings.”
“To think that I was ever content in a cheap dosshouse…” Eliza flopped backward onto the eiderdown. She’d never be happier anywhere short of Mayfair.
“So long as you leave Green Street suitably spoiled,” said he, “I shall consider my job well done.”
She grinned at the bronzed lighting fixture on the ceiling. “Perhaps I’ll move into a little flat nearby. We can be neighbors!”
“I’d like that. Now, sit up and tell me, how do I look?”
Eliza propped herself up on her elbows to appreciate him. He wore an immaculately tailored black dinner jacket and trousers, polished patent leather shoes, a starched white shirtfront, and an expensive gold watch slipped into his waistcoat pocket. His thick, dark hair, threaded with silver at the temples, was slicked back against his high brow, emphasizing the perfection of his features.
“It ought to be a sin to look that good.” He laughed and she poked out her lip in a petulant pout. The act was for his benefit when she asked, “Will there be women at this dinner?”
“Some, yes. Mostly the wives and daughters of my fellow directors.” He stooped and scolded her like an old beau. “Don’t be jealous, Eliza. After all, I’m coming home toyou.”
She liked to imagine him missing her. She wanted Mark towanther, to wonder about her, and to wish that it was she who was seated beside him in silks and sables while the menfolk discussed their financial concerns.
He signaled to his valet. With a polite nod to Eliza, the man went to ensure that the carriage waited in readiness at the kerb. Sir Mark van Bergen would never suffer tardiness.
Her handsome host kept a precise schedule and rarely deviated from it.
Only Eliza’s presence kept him on his toes. He offered his hand to help her from his bed. “How will you amuse yourself whilst I’m gone?”
Eliza swung her legs off the mattress and landed on the carpeted floor. She stood, saying, “I’ll take my supper on a tray, and then have a long hot soak in the bathtub ’till I go pruney. Maybe I’ll read another one of your gentleman’s rags if I’m not too drowsy.”
“Ah, well, you needn’t wait up for me. Pearson, Cabot, and the other servants know my routine. They’ll see me safely to bed.”
Mark escorted her through the doorway of his bedchamber. They stood together on the landing, which was dim, cool, and lit by moonlight through a glass skylight overhead.
His hand still held hers as he said, “I’m sorry to leave you. I would cancel if I could, but a Bank dinner is terribly important, and with the Boer war escalating…” he sighed and shook his head. “Never mind my excuses, Eliza. Believe me when I say that I’d rather be sharing my supper with you than discussing business with my colleagues—it’s all the same with them, you know. Now they’re champing at the bit to fund this fighting. What I wouldn’t give for one of your clever remarks to shift them all off-kilter!”
She laughed. “They won’t know what to think if you start speaking out, and the less your fellow directors know about me, the better.”
