Mark knew how much she fancied gardens. Even as a little girl, Eliza had found that sitting among the flower beds in Regents Park was a heavenly experience. She felt contented to walk here with her future husband during his lunch hour.
“I’m glad you came,” he told her. “Your presence has cheered a rather gloomy day. My work does get monotonous, you know, so it’s nice to have a treat to look forward to. I hope you’ve enjoyed your outing, as well. You are welcome to take the landau anywhere you wish to go—anytime.”
“Thanks. Someday, I’ll be so busy that you’ll wonder where I got to!”
“As long as you come home to me afterward,” he warned. Laughing, Mark lowered his voice to confess, “Oh, Eliza, my love, I shall be counting down the minutes until I’m in your arms.”
He might’ve kissed her, but they weren’t quite alone in the Garden Court. Office windows overlooked the space on three sides, and a small door in a stone wall led to the place where Eliza had entered from Threadneedle Street.
A clerk hurried toward them, for the business of the Bank could not be ignored for long. “Sir Mark!” said the young man, red-faced and puffing from searching for them. “Sir Mark, you’ve a visitor.”
“Can’t you see I’m with Miss Summersby, my fiancée?” With a shake of his dark head, he tried to wave the lad away. “No, I cannot be bothered just now.”
Yet the clerk was determined. “Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t dare to disturb you, but—sir!—it is His Grace the Duke of Bodlington, and I did not feel he ought to be kept waiting.”
Mark stiffened. He withdrew his arm carefully from beneath Eliza’s hand. “Bodlington ishere?To seeme?”
The clerk nodded and Eliza teased, “Seems like you’re a popular fellow!”
She did not know much about dukes except for the fact that most of them were terribly rich and owned heaps of land in town and in the countryside. Such an aristocrat must be an important caller to the Bank of England and an influential acquaintance of Sir Mark van Bergen, whose sister lived near Bodlington House on Piccadilly.
In fact, she reminded him that it was at a party in honor of the duke and duchess’ daughter where Eliza had first climbed into Mark’s landau to escape a brace of thugs.
Mark merely shrugged at that memory and smiled tightly. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
“That’s alright,” she said, “I won’t keep you.” He had so many responsibilities, so many things to do. It was kind of him to make any time for her at all.
To the ruddy-faced clerk, he asked, “Will you escort Miss Summersby to the gate? My carriage shall be waiting.” To Eliza, Mark bent to kiss her cheek beneath the brim of her hat. “I love you,” he whispered against her temple. “I’ll see you back at home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Duke of Bodlington stood in Mark’s office, staring through the windows onto the Garden Court below. His Grace was not a tall man and had grown stout in his middle years likely from a fondness for too much brandy and cigars over any meaningful enterprise.
There was nothing of Eliza Summersby in this dour, lazy aristocrat.
Mark closed the door behind him, and the soft catch of the latch echoed in the silence. The duke did not turn to acknowledge Mark’s presence. He merely glowered in the glass as he said, “That was her down there?”
“Yes.”
“She’s comelier than Lady Ermentrude, I grant you. It appears that Elizabeth has inherited her mother’s poise. My darling May was a proud woman, but never rigid.” His Grace sighed. “The duchess might as well have a bloody poker for a spine.”
Mark went to his desk. He sank into his chair, surrounded by his workspace of ledgers, reports, financial records, and correspondence from all of the great banking houses of London. His polished desktop contained folios concerning the fighting in South Africa and memorandums from ministers in the treasury.
He’d been busier than usual with the war. The various boards and committees on which he sat required his attention and guidance. Then there had been Eliza, who asked nothing of him beyond his love and support.
Her presence in his life—and lately, in his arms—was his refuge from this headache of business in the City, yet the various spheres of Mark’s life now converged dangerously.
How could he keep one hand laced with Eliza’s while retaining a firm rein on his career? How could he do battle with the Duke of Bodlington and the Court of Directors? He feared his strength had been stretched too thin, and that some tenuous thread would soon snap. His world was in danger of unraveling between his fingers.
Something, somewhere, must give before it broke.
“Eliza has consented to be my wife,” Mark told the man. “She is to be Lady van Bergen.”
His Grace pivoted to meet his gaze. “You will be kind to her?”
Mark nodded curtly. His mouth was a grim line as he answered, “Kinder than you ever were, certainly.”
“That’s just as well. I’ve come to settle something on her. Discreetly between gentlemen, I am prepared to give a dowry of five thousand pounds—it is what she is owed after all these years—to ensure everyone’s silence on the matter.”
