Trapped in the drawing room with her father and Mr. Finch, Annabelle bit her tongue so that she would not weep. Scarcely two weeks since Lizzie had left and already, Papa looked to marry her off too. Though if she earned enough balancing Mr. Harris’s books while pawning more trinkets from the house, perhaps she’d reach the fifty pounds she needed to play his tables.
Not perhaps,must. She would amass that coin, by hook or crook, because Mr. Harris had, in his own way, bolstered her hope. Rude at points, especially when he’d escorted her that first day out ofThe Gilded Leafstraight into a waiting hansom, but at least he employed her now for pay.
Besides, his all-too-wanton perusal of her person had felt quite different from Mr. Finch’s rank stares. In truth, Mr. Harris’s twinkling eyes had made Annabelle’s insides flip. His hair was mostly flaxen, his skin a soft-bronzed hue, and his lips terribly inviting—not to mention the way his long legs had leaned rakishly against his desk.
Annabelle curbed her unwholesome thoughts. Mr. Harris was her employer, not some dandy to swoon over. He’d been thrilled she’d reconciled his books in half the time his usualbookkeeper took. He’d soon see she was a ‘boon to business,’ and then he might let her gamble at his tables and split the profits like she’d offered. With just a bit more effort, Annabelle was certain she could win Mr. Harris over.
The problem was, time was not on her side.
“You’ve a letter, miss.” Papa’s ill-mannered footman barged in, rudely shoving the note at Annabelle in front of her father and Mr. Finch. The two looked expectantly at her as she cracked open the thick seal.
The Earl and Countess of Denbigh cordially request the honor of your company at a ball in celebration of the coming out of their granddaughter, Miss Mercy Pendrake, this Sunday, nine o’clock, 8 Coventry Street.
“Bella, do not keep us in suspense,” her father urged.
Suspense.As if he hadn’t kept her and Lizzie in suspense all their lives…
“We have been invited to the Denbigh ball this Sunday, Papa.” She was thrilled she might attend a ball, at last! “It is surely Lizzie’s doing, as the Duchess of Allendale is the Earl of Denbigh’s granddaughter, whose husband, the Duke, is a friend to Lizzie’s husband, the Baron. May we go, Papa, please?”
“Why, of course we must go.” Her father beamed. “And Mr. Finch may escort you.”
Annabelle froze. “Father,” she dopped her voice, “his name isnoton the invitation.”
“Then we shall procure him one. Write to Lizzie to request she do so.”
“But Father, one cannot simply demand an?—”
“Nonsense.” He glanced nervously at Finch, whose tongue clicked that awful tooth back and forth between his hairy, hanging jowls.
Annabelle’s hopes plummeted; she felt she might be sick.
“Miss, you’ve another caller.” The incorrigible footman barged in again, this time with a vase of blooms.
“Bearing flowers?” Papa stood from his chair, demanding, “What card was left?”
The footman handed him the card—while slyly slipping Bella a separate note—all while Mr. Finch scowled at the vase of red ranunculus.
“Ah.” Her father looked suddenly nervous. “Mr. Finch, good sir, I am afraid we must bid you farewell as I have, er, business to attend to.” He began to show their visitor out. “I do hope you’ll call again tomorrow, sir. Don’t you, Bella?”
She quickly hid the note in her dress folds.
“Bella?” Papa insisted.
She looked up. “Oh, good day, Mr. Finch.” But already the man pressed wet lips to her knuckles. The moment he turned she wiped them on her skirts and furtively read the note.
Follow my lead. I will explain my reasons. —A. Harris
Annabelle’s heart soared. Was Mr. Harris as ‘dazzled by her charms’ as his bouquet announced? She crushed his note into her pocket while Papa ushered Mr. Finch out.
Seconds later, Mr. Harris walked in, both callers surely having passed one another in the hall.
In three strides, Mr. Harris warmly pressed his lips to her hand.
Dry lips, she thought.Dry and firm and…
“Mr. Harris.” She dropped into a curtsy.
***
