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Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
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hesitated, nodded, and turned to go.
“Freddie?” There was a moment of silence, then his lover said, “Does he know about me?”
Freddie stiffened. “I wouldn’t break your confidence without your permission.”
Those words were rewarded by a devastatingly sweet smile. “That’s what I like about you, Freddie. You are a man of your word. Go along, now. I’ll be with you very soon.”
Freddie was drooping with weariness when he enteredhis own rooms. Why hadn’t he told his lover to go to the devil? Because then it would be over between them, and he couldn’t face that. Had he no pride, no dignity? He’d been thoroughly humiliated. God, what was the matter with him?
He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it back in two long gulps, then he settled himself in front of the empty grate, brandy bottle in hand, and contemplated his future. He was thirty-five years old. He should get married and raise a family. That would please his mother. He gave a hollow laugh and poured himself another brandy. Sometimes, he wished that he were dead. His eyelids felt heavy and he closed his eyes for a moment.
He dreamed that he was drowning. Seaweed was wrapped around his throat. The pressure tightened horribly. When it came to him, finally, that this was no dream, and that someone was murdering him, it was too late to do more than put up a feeble resistance.
Ransom’s Bank was on the east side of Pall Mali, close to Charing Cross. Moments after the doors were opened for business, a hackney pulled up and a young gentleman of fashion descended to the pavement. When he entered the bank, he conferred with Mr. Stevenson, the under-manager, and was soon shown to a windowless room in the basement of the bank, just off one of the strong-rooms. Shortly afterward, a trunk was delivered and the customer was left to examine the contents in private.
It was a small trunk, and though the leather was old, it was well cared for. Brass studs decorated the sides and top. There was an oval brass plate on the lid, engraved with three initials, P.R.L. The young man used his key to open the trunk. This wasn’t the first time he had examined the contents. Everything was in order—everything that could propel him into the kind of life he had always dreamed of. One major obstacle stood in his way, and when he removed the obstacle, his patience would finally be rewarded. Three years he had waited, and now he could almost taste success.
His fingers delved into letters and documents andcame up with a white velvet pochette, yellowing with age. It was the sort of thing a lady might carry to a ball if there were no pockets in her gown. He emptied the pochette into his hand, and a bracelet nestled in his palm.
There were five cameos on it, all of ladies’ heads, all of them different and carved from different precious stones. The one thing that was uniform was the setting for each cameo. This was of filigreed gold, overlaid with vines and roses. It was an exquisite piece of workmanship, but more the point, it was his passport to a life of ease and wealth.
He replaced the cameo bracelet, then the pochette, and after emptying his pockets, threw several letters into the trunk also. Having locked the trunk, he called for the clerk to take it away.
Moments later, he left the bank. Soon, he promised himself, very soon everything would be in place, and he would remove the one obstacle in the path of his ambitions.
Chapter 4
Catherine could not make up her mind whether her ride on Hampstead Heath was for pleasure or because she enjoyed torturing herself. It was early on Saturday morning during one of the warmest spells they’d had all summer; she was mounted on Vixen, a sweet little goer if she knew anything about horseflesh, and she was constrained to ride sidesaddle and hold her mount to a sedate trot. What she wanted was to throw caution to the winds, toss off her bonnet, loosen her hair, and ride pell-mell for the summit of Parliament Hill, the
“Freddie?” There was a moment of silence, then his lover said, “Does he know about me?”
Freddie stiffened. “I wouldn’t break your confidence without your permission.”
Those words were rewarded by a devastatingly sweet smile. “That’s what I like about you, Freddie. You are a man of your word. Go along, now. I’ll be with you very soon.”
Freddie was drooping with weariness when he enteredhis own rooms. Why hadn’t he told his lover to go to the devil? Because then it would be over between them, and he couldn’t face that. Had he no pride, no dignity? He’d been thoroughly humiliated. God, what was the matter with him?
He poured himself a glass of brandy and drank it back in two long gulps, then he settled himself in front of the empty grate, brandy bottle in hand, and contemplated his future. He was thirty-five years old. He should get married and raise a family. That would please his mother. He gave a hollow laugh and poured himself another brandy. Sometimes, he wished that he were dead. His eyelids felt heavy and he closed his eyes for a moment.
He dreamed that he was drowning. Seaweed was wrapped around his throat. The pressure tightened horribly. When it came to him, finally, that this was no dream, and that someone was murdering him, it was too late to do more than put up a feeble resistance.
Ransom’s Bank was on the east side of Pall Mali, close to Charing Cross. Moments after the doors were opened for business, a hackney pulled up and a young gentleman of fashion descended to the pavement. When he entered the bank, he conferred with Mr. Stevenson, the under-manager, and was soon shown to a windowless room in the basement of the bank, just off one of the strong-rooms. Shortly afterward, a trunk was delivered and the customer was left to examine the contents in private.
It was a small trunk, and though the leather was old, it was well cared for. Brass studs decorated the sides and top. There was an oval brass plate on the lid, engraved with three initials, P.R.L. The young man used his key to open the trunk. This wasn’t the first time he had examined the contents. Everything was in order—everything that could propel him into the kind of life he had always dreamed of. One major obstacle stood in his way, and when he removed the obstacle, his patience would finally be rewarded. Three years he had waited, and now he could almost taste success.
His fingers delved into letters and documents andcame up with a white velvet pochette, yellowing with age. It was the sort of thing a lady might carry to a ball if there were no pockets in her gown. He emptied the pochette into his hand, and a bracelet nestled in his palm.
There were five cameos on it, all of ladies’ heads, all of them different and carved from different precious stones. The one thing that was uniform was the setting for each cameo. This was of filigreed gold, overlaid with vines and roses. It was an exquisite piece of workmanship, but more the point, it was his passport to a life of ease and wealth.
He replaced the cameo bracelet, then the pochette, and after emptying his pockets, threw several letters into the trunk also. Having locked the trunk, he called for the clerk to take it away.
Moments later, he left the bank. Soon, he promised himself, very soon everything would be in place, and he would remove the one obstacle in the path of his ambitions.
Chapter 4
Catherine could not make up her mind whether her ride on Hampstead Heath was for pleasure or because she enjoyed torturing herself. It was early on Saturday morning during one of the warmest spells they’d had all summer; she was mounted on Vixen, a sweet little goer if she knew anything about horseflesh, and she was constrained to ride sidesaddle and hold her mount to a sedate trot. What she wanted was to throw caution to the winds, toss off her bonnet, loosen her hair, and ride pell-mell for the summit of Parliament Hill, the
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