The duke produced a purse from the breast pocket of his tweed coat. The leather cover was embossed with a gilded crest and its silken interior was stuffed to bursting with pound notes. Although the two purses were not the same, this scene reminded Mark of the stolen wallet Eliza had stashed above the wardrobe. He marveled that her story had come full circle.
At last, she’d receive the funds that she and her mother had been denied.
Mark had made his fortune taking risks. Though he now lived a comfortable life, his career relied on careful consideration of the figures before him. Men of fortune and influence relied on his judgment—to make the proper call at the proper time—and to competently deal with any repercussions that arose.
He hoped the woman he loved would trust in his prudence.
“Eliza does not wish to know you or anything about you,” he told His Grace. “She has no desire to learn the truth of her birth nor to be any bother to you. She wants to get on with her life like any other young woman.”
The Duke of Bodlington’s brows pinched in displeasure. “You’re telling me she wouldn’t take the money?”
“I am telling you that I won’t take the money. My silence is for Eliza’s sake, not yours. I shan’t be bought off, and I know that were Eliza here to do so, she would throw your purse back in your face.”
The duke sputtered and blustered. He grew florid and spat out, “Then you’re the last honest man left in the City of London—or a damned fool!”
“I’ve never done anything that kept me up at night,” Mark replied. He supported the safekeeping of Eliza, Ann, Sidney, Geoffrey, and all of their servants. He maintained his home on Green Street and the Cooper’s townhouse off Piccadilly. He was the head of the noble van Bergens and refused to betray his principles. “Losing sleep over a prickling conscience is a dreadful thing, I’m sure, but I needn’t tellyouthat, Your Grace.”
With a huff, the duke returned his pocketbook to his coat. Negotiations had reached an impasse. Neither gentleman had anything more to say to one another. Mark would keep Eliza’s secret in accordance with his own moral code. The duke could go to the devil for allhecared
“Beware, Sir Mark,” warned the fellow as he quit the Bank, “I fear our wives shall be our downfall.”
***
Eliza spent her afternoon penning a letter to the editor ofVanity Fair, London’s premier fashionable magazine, for she was branching out. The future Lady van Bergen was determined to expand her reach beyond the realms of men, and thanks to her new position in society,the Sketch, the Lady,and eventhe Gentlewomanlay within her grasp.
She would be both Mr. Ellis Smith, a servant in the employ of a gentleman, and Her Ladyship of Green Street. As Hilda Prevost had predicted, Mayfair society—polite or otherwise—was due for a shaking up.
While she collected her thoughts, Eliza admired the gleaming sapphire ring that Mark had placed on her finger. It was very old, very dear, and precious to her. She’d treasure it all of her days.
She distantly registered the chime of the doorbell. Perhaps it was Ann calling for tea, as she often did. Or Hilda passing by on her way to Hyde Park with her sketchbook and watercolor paints in hand. Eliza did not know anybody else in London but hoped to have many friends and visitors to enliven her future life.
Pearson appeared in the drawing room doorway. The unflappable butler was curiously ruffled. His wavering hands carried a card on a silver tray and announced, with some trepidation, “Her Grace the Duchess of Bodlington.”
Eliza had met the duchess once before, on the pavements of Shaftesbury Avenue, when the old dragon had accused her of looking too much like her daughter, Lady Ermentrude. But the duchess was Ann’s near neighbor in Piccadilly and socially connected to the Prevosts, who knew Mark very well.
She couldn’t imagine what Her Grace wanted withher, but Eliza was game to find out. She placed her correspondence on the side table, and then rose as Pearson escorted the lady across the threshold. The duchess wore an elaborately plumed bonnet and a matronly plum-colored coat with a feathered boa looped around her shoulders. The outfit was ugly and unbecoming, yet every inch of her smacked of wealth.
Eliza reckoned a visit from the Queen couldn’t have been more regal—or more intimidating.
She bobbed a clumsy curtsey. “Your Grace.”
The Duchess of Bodlington looked her over as if she’d encountered a slug on the kerbstone or a rat scurrying up from the sewers. “You are Elizabeth Summersby, I presume.”
It had been a long time since she’d been called by her Christian name. She remembered that Mr. Jarvey used to refer to her as ‘Elizabeth’ during his inspections, but Mother had never done so. Even the teachers at the parochial school had scolded her as ‘Eliza’.
Her Grace loomed over the side table which held Eliza’s letter. That correspondence was private, but the duchess appeared to believe that it was her right to snoop where she pleased.
“Your handwriting is atrocious, girl.”
To think, her penmanship had improved in recent weeks!
“For most of my life,” countered Eliza, “I had no cause to hold a pen. I could scarcely afford a pencil.” She wasn’t ashamed of her past poverty, though she was glad to have overcome it. “I’m lucky I can sign my name, but Sir Mark has been helpful with my spelling and grammar. He is awfully supportive…”
“Yes, he would be, wouldn’t he? Youarehis mistress, are you not?” Her Grace glanced around the room, noting the comfortable leather Chesterfield, the potted palms and geraniums in the windows. Her eyes raked over Eliza’s pink chiffon tea gown, which was loosely frothy and fashionable. “You reside beneath this roof at his pleasure. The clothes, the carriage, your little scribblings…”
“You misunderstand, duchess. We are engaged to be married.” Nothing that she and Mark had done was immoral. He’d behaved as a perfect gentleman, and she had acted out of love for him. They’d pledged their hearts and hands to each other.
The old dragon sniffed haughtily. “Impossible!”
