“I probably shouldn’t even tell you, Miss Prevost, as your father could force him to resign. I reckon my presence here at Green Street is a conflict of interest. The Court of Directors would be shocked.”
“Oh, I doubt it. Half of them keep mistresses tucked away on the side. Sir Mark is hardly behaving beyond the pale. Wealthy men please themselves, you know, which is half the reason why I dread marrying one. As long as they’re discreet, they can get away with anything. But I’m certain Sir Mark wouldn’t betray you if you were to become Lady van Bergen. He has proven himself to be better than his colleagues at Threadneedle Street. Anyway, my father and I rarely see eye to eye, so your secret is safe with me. Let’s consider it payment in kind for saving my pearls.”
“Alright,” said Eliza. “We’re square.”
“Tell me, whatdoyou intend to do about Sir Mark? Will you make an honest man of him?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. Eliza Summersby making Mark van Bergen honest? Imagine that! If Miss Prevost knew of her past, she would laugh, too.
Thankfully, the girl was sincere. “I mean it, Miss Summersby! I want you two to marry.”
“I’m not so sure Mark feels the same. I believe he loves me, of course, but matrimony is a big step for a bachelor gentleman. He’s awfully set in his ways. He isn’t stiff, but he does fancy everything in its place, and I doubt he’d put up with me making a muddle of his well-ordered life.”
“My dear, that is just what he needs! I’m certain you are precisely what he wants—in bed and otherwise.”
Hilda winked outrageously, and Eliza erupted into a fit of mirth. Had Sir Mark’s neighbors spied from their windows at the sound of so much laughter, they would’ve seen two pretty ladies in the bloom of youth, gossiping about men and joking about marriage.
“It’s a new century, after all,” said Hilda, “Much like Sir Mark van Bergen, Mayfair society is due for a shake-up. I, for one, am thrilled to count you among our rebellious number.”
***
Mark left work early to visit the jewelers of Hatton Garden for an engagement ring. To him, marriage was no laughing matter. He was determined to make Eliza his wife, his partner, his soulmate. He loved her, and to the devil with the consequences!
London’s diamond district was not as busy as Bond Street. It was not quite as fashionable as the showrooms of Garrard, Asprey, and Hancock to name a few. Yet the most distinguished customers knew to seek a better bargain in the backrooms of de Beers, Werthheim, or Jacobs.
These proprietors were all too happy to open their doors—and their safes—to Sir Mark van Bergen of the Bank of England. Upon countless jewelry trays, he studied gold bands and precious gemstones. From little velvet pouches, loose diamonds were produced for his perusal with provenance from mines in Southern Africa.
Mark knew that Eliza would not be pleased with such a plundering. She would not be happy wearing the spoils of a war that she vehemently opposed, so he chose a modest sapphire in an antique setting to match her eyes. Never mind that the ring had once belonged to a mistress of the Prince of Orange. It was tasteful and beautiful, and very dear.
He tucked the ring box into his jacket pocket.
Tonight he would pledge his love and his loyalty to Eliza. If she accepted him—he prayed that she would—they’d be married in the summer. Perhaps the new Lady van Bergen desired to honeymoon at the seaside or on the Continent. Mark would take a leave of absence from work and carry her anywhere she wished to go. He only wanted to be with her, wherever.
His heart beat a thunderous tattoo in his chest, for truth be told, he felt nervous on the carriage ride home. Why would Eliza marry him when she’d soon have her independence? She would be of age, of means. She would desire the moon rather than an unexceptional man.
What if he was too old for her? At thirty-eight, he was ancient in her eyes.
By God, he was very nearly forty!
Eliza would prefer someone more her speed. Some fellow with fresh ideas and modern values, while he was part of the old guard. His colleagues were aged men, and they conducted their business accordingly.
Yes, he’d taken chances in his youth. He’d strived for that brass ring and made a fortune, but now he lived by a schedule and fell asleep in front of the fire. His eyes were too sore to read, yet Eliza devoured a dozen magazines in a week, and would soon be progressing to novels.
Would she grow bored and dissatisfied as he nodded off at the end of a long workday? Would she live for those rare evenings when he took her to dinner or escorted her to the theatre, where hungry young jackals would charm her from his dull, staid arms?
Mark was prepared to risk everything for Eliza—his career, his pride, his future prospects—but was she willing to hazard her heart, her hand, and her happiness onhim?
Patting the jeweler’s box in his pocket, he felt brave enough to take that bet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Eliza had lost all track of time—she hadn’t even bothered to glance at a clock or to listen to the chiming of the bells to count the hours. She was so preoccupied with her correspondence that she let the day get away from her.
She wasn’t there to meet Mark in the hall when he arrived home from the Bank. He’d had to seek her out, and discovered her in the garden, working over the little wooden tea table with letters and magazines strewn about her.
She found that fresh air clarified her thoughts, and sunshine lifted her spirits. Yet the scent of flowers soon mingled with the aroma of his shaving lotion, and she looked up to see Mark descending the back steps.
“There you are,” said he, happily, “I was worried when you didn’t turn up to greet me, but Pearson said you’ve been out here all day. I am pleased you’re making yourself at home…”
