At the far left where he really didn’t want to look was the pile he called “family melancholia.” This included his father’s latest ideas, reports about his younger brother’s Grand Tour of debauchery through Europe, and finally the doctor’s missive on his mother’s ailment. She had chronic pain, or so she claimed. Mostly, the woman just sat in the dark and stared at the fire. Some days she didn’t even get out of bed. The pile was dubbed “melancholia” because, despite his best efforts, he had been singularly unable to affect any aspect of that pile. His father had more wild ideas every day; his brother, Jack, obviously planned to seduce every female on the Continent; and his mother would not step out of her room. So whenever he looked at that pile, he was buried beneath a tide of sadness mixed with futility. It had gotten so bad lately that he’d ordered Dribbs to put a full, bushy plant on top of the pile. The man never did, of course, but he did keep a full bottle of brandy nearby.
The third pile was easier to deal with, but no less small. It was simply bills. And his family had a lot of bills.
But none of those piles were the subject of his current disgust. No, what lay before him dead center was two notes. One from the delectable Helaine and another from Charlie, the new mine manager. Helaine’s note held his attention the most. He smiled at the rough linen paper, held it to his nose to detect the faint sprinkling of lemon, and even traced his fingertip over her soft curving letters. Very feminine, to his mind, and also unusually fine penmanship for a girl of the middle classes, even a courtesan. So she must have had a decent education. All of that made him smile. Her words, however, did not.
To Lord Redhill,
Three vendors visited me this morning with offers of credit. Thanks to your efforts, I have hopes of establishing my little shop as a premier dressmaker to the ton. Words cannot adequately express my thanks. All I can do is to offer this humble token of tea for your enjoyment as it reminds me of you. Please know that my deepest expression of gratitude will come to you through your sister. I shall work tirelessly so that she is the most beautiful bride any woman could hope to be.
With humble thanks,
Mrs. H. Mortimer
Robert snorted as he read it through again. He did not want her gratitude, and he certainly did not want it expressed through his sister. The very idea made him slightly queasy. Of course that was clearly the point. It was rather repulsive to think of his mistress also being his sister’s dressmaker. Only a madman would pursue such a thing, especially against both ladies’ wishes.
And yet he could not stop himself. Helaine drew him. She challenged his mind, she roused his protective instincts, and she made him harder than granite. No woman of his acquaintance had ever done all three things. He had barely spent more than a couple hours in her presence and yet he’d spent the better part of the last two days thinking of more ways to intrigue her. Intrigue her, tempt her, then seduce her. That was his plan, and he was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking of ways to do it.
The other letter on his desk was not nearly so enticing. It was from Charlie, the young man who had shown such strength of character down in the mines that one benighted day. After firing the old manager, Robert had promoted Charlie to the job. The boy wrote that the sacked Mr. Hutchins was stirring up the workers. He said that men who had not one month ago cursed Hutchins’s name were now following him as he fostered a revolt. It was all because Robert had shut down the mine for repairs. He would not allow one man, woman, or child inside the damn place until it was safe to do so. But men out of work had little to do but curse the people in charge. And Robert’s other decree, that he would hire no woman and no child under the age of twelve, had hit some families hard. They needed the extra income. Which meant that the whole area was a powder keg of unrest.
Damn. It would take more money and more time to settle this peacefully. And that would take him away from London when he really wished to be with Helaine. Enough dithering, he told himself sternly. It was time for action. So thinking, he grabbed his own stationery and pen. Two minutes later he had invited the lady to share tea with him at a small, intimate café. If she wanted to express her gratitude, then she could do so in person. Where he could persuade her to be more demonstrative of her thanks. A minute later, he rang his bell for Dribbs.
“Dribbs, I need you to send a footman to deliver a note for me, if you would.”
There was a deafening silence as his butler hesitated at the door, neither coming closer to grab the letter nor stepping outside to call for a footman.
Robert looked up with a frown. “Dribbs?”
“Er, might I inquire, my lord, is that perhaps a missive for Mrs. Mortimer, the dressmaker?”
Robert straightened up with a frown. “My correspondence is none of your concern, Dribbs, just the delivery. Any competent butler would know that.”
The man colored a dark red to the tips of his ears, but he did not back down. “Of course, my lord,” he said. “But it may interest you to know that I also received a note from Mrs. Mortimer.”
Robert felt his eyebrows rise almost into his hairline. “Did you?” he asked, his voice deceptively low. “I can’t imagine what about.”
“Well, my lord, she bade me to make a pot of your new tea directly, and…um…”
“Spit it out, man.”
He didn’t spit it out. In fact, he dashed out of the room only to return a second later with the tea tray. On it was a steaming pot of tea, presumably with the leaves already brewing. The tea, he recalled, that Helaine had sent. The tea that reminded her of him. He took a tentative sniff and felt his sinuses clear. Good Lord, but that was strong stuff. Meanwhile, Dribbs finished setting out the tray, but he didn’t leave. Instead he stood there, still flushed a dark red, and with a clear apology in his eye.
“She said something else, didn’t she?” Robert asked.
“Yes, my lord. She said if you were to write her a letter or in any way try to contact her, I was supposed to give you something. And say something.”
Robert leaned back, surprise and pleasure slipping through his mind. “Go on.”
“She said that she hopes you enjoy this rather strong, almost overbearing brew. And that while you are drinking, you might enjoy some reading material.” At which point, Dribbs held out a political pamphlet.
Robert took it, frowning as he saw an unfamiliar woman’s name as the author. A quick glance, however, had him bursting out with laughter. The opening lines asked these questions: Why can’t women have productive careers? Why are we forced to choose between becoming a wife or a whore with nothing in between? It went on to claim that a woman without a man was perforce expected to become a mistress. She was barred from most legitimate trades and occupations. And even the lower orders such as maids and cooks were subjected to the lewd and unwanted advances of their employers. Almost as if the men believed that if a woman had no protector, she must wish to be a whore.
The message from Helaine was obvious. Coupled with her statement that this overbearing tea reminded her of him, she was sending him a well-deserved slap. After all, she had refused him. And when he thought to ignore her refusal, she turned his own butler against him.
“Clever woman,” he said as he continued to scan the pamphlet. Sadly, he did indeed recognize the attitudes described in the treatise. Other men of his set, and certainly his own father, believed the female staff existed to serve his needs—sexual and otherwise. He had not until this moment put himself in that category.