I flush cold. I worry it is my father.
But then Henry steps out of the drawing room.
“Married, you bastard!” he chuckles. “And you didn’t even tell me.”
Henry catches sight of Annabelle and he blanches—but only a little. More than anything, his handsome face, with its dark brown eyes and light brown complexion, appears perfectly friendly.
“My apologies, Mrs. de Lacey, for the coarse language,” Henry says. “But my friend has given me a shock. I am wishing you joy, I assure you, on your nuptials.”
I am, for a moment, unable to speak. I did not expect to receive a visit from anyone so soon. Despite our friendship, I thought Henry would keep his distance for longer.
When I meet Henry’s eyes again, however, I understand. The soft light of concern shines there. I appreciate it, even though it is unnecessary.
“And who are you?” Annabelle says icily. “I do not believe my husband has told me of you, sir.”
I can’t blame Annabelle for her reaction. She has reason to be skeptical of anyone, especially a man who has appeared out of nowhere and proclaims her husband a “bastard” for marrying.
“The Honourable Mr. Henry Bertram, madam,” Henry says, sweeping into a low bow. “Honourable twice over as a matter of fact. Once because my father was the Baron of Briscombe and once because I represent Briscombe in parliament. Of course, the latter is only relevant inside the House of Commons.”
“Oh, Mr. Bertram,” Annabelle says, her tone not at all friendlier. I suppose that she remembers Henry’s letter. “I am surprised you would descend to visit us at home.”
Henry has the grace to look bashful.
“I won’t pretend that I am not delicately situated as a public man. But I am a devoted friend. And Alfred is very dear to me.”
“And we are married now,” Annabelle says. “So it is safe for you to come.”
“I don’t know aboutsafe,” Henry says. “Your reputation, Mrs. de Lacey, is singular.”
Annabelle’s face goes even harder.
“You are free to leave, Mr. Bertram.”
This time Henry truly blanches.
“You misunderstand me, madame. I merely meant that half the men in London are terrified of you and the other half covet what you have built. But while I have to be cautious in my actions, I have my position because I actually have principles—and I believe that women need more power in this country. That they deserve it. In short, I admire you, Mrs. de Lacey, and hope we can be friends.”
Annabelle doesn’t look particularly enticed by Henry’s offer. But, to my surprise, when she speaks, her voice is gentler.
“Your speeches in Parliament, Mr. Bertram, are some of the best.”
“Ah,” he says. “So youhaveheard of me.”
“Yes, anyone who cares about Radical politics in this country has, as you well know.”
Henry gives a smile that I would not classify as smug, but which definitely meets the grade for “self-satisfied.”
“I feel personal gratitude to you as well,” Henry says, “beyond making my friend the happiest of men, of course. A friend of my family, once my ayah and now my mother’s companion, has a daughter, a Mrs. Erickson, who works at your counting house. As I understand it, your counting house offers an unparalleled place for a young lady of brains to find employ.”
“I know Mrs. Erickson,” Annabelle says. “Although I am afraid to say not well. She is an excellent bookkeeper.”
I am shocked that such a connection would be shared by Henry and Annabelle. And that Annabelle would know his speeches. But, of course, it does not surprise me that Annabelle would support the Radicals. I certainly couldn’t see her throwing in with the Tories or the Liberals.
Just then, a knock sounds on the door.
We are still standing in the entryway.
“That must be Matilda,” Annabelle says, checking through the peephole. As she opens it, she exclaims, “And Evie.”
