The Lady's Snowbound Scandal
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Paulia Belgado
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A passionate Victorian romance to warm you up this winter! A spinster, a scrooge…and only one bed! American industrialist Elliot has a plan to ensure his sisters will marry well — find a London society wife to elevate the family name! What's not part of his plan is falling for the shy spinster who has no intention of marrying at all… Lady Georgina believes Elliot to be a heartless scrooge! Still, she needs his help to save her beloved orphanage in time for Christmas. So, in exchange, she offers to help him find a respectable wife. But when they're scandalously snowed in at a coaching inn, their simmering attraction has no place to hide…
Chapter One
No seven words could strike more terror into Lady Georgina Abernathy’s heart than those her new companion Miss Sophia Warren was about to utter.
‘Shall we go for a walk outside?’
Lost in her embroidery, Georgina was distracted by the dreadful suggestion, causing her to poke her finger with her needle. ‘Ouch!’
Drat.
She quickly drew her finger into her mouth, thankful the blood hadn’t stained the expensive white silk handkerchief. She scowled at Miss Warren.
‘You cannot spend another day cooped up inside.’ Miss Warren gestured to the window. ‘It’s an unusually warm winter morning. Why would you object to going for a stroll outdoors?’
Truly, Georgina had no objections to most of the seven words in that sentence. ‘Shall we’ implied that Miss Warren would be with her, to which she did not take issue. Even the ‘go for a walk’ part sounded like a good idea, if her sore bottom, which had been seated for hours, had any say in the matter.
No, Georgina could only protest to one of those words.
Outside.
She shuddered.
That earned her a stern look from the companion. ‘Lady Georgina.’
Georgina placed her embroidery into her basket and splayed out on the settee in a most unladylike manner. ‘Going outside requires that I put on my coat and my hat, as well as my gloves and boots.’
‘Yes, and...?’
‘But that also means I must leave this lovely warm sitting room and my tea.’ She nodded to the tray next to her on the table. ‘And step out through the door.’
‘Yes, that is the general idea of outside.’
‘And why would I want to do that?’
‘Lady Georgina, since I arrived here at Harwicke House, all we’ve done is embroider, read, paint watercolours, drink tea, and occasionally sit in the gardens.’ A wry smile played on Miss Warren’s lips. ‘You don’t mean to stay indoors for the remainder of the year, do you?’
‘I do.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes.’ Rising to her feet, she brushed her hands over her skirts. ‘Miss Warren, when you assumed the role of my companion from Great-Aunt Leticia a few weeks ago, you probably expected a young debutante, not an unmarried lady of seven and twenty.’
‘To be quite honest, I did not know what to expect, Lady Georgina.’
‘In any case, as you will learn, I do not participate in society. At least, I haven’t for three Seasons now.’
In her first Seasons she had attended every ball, gathering, and social event Leticia had deemed necessary. Under the watchful eye of her chaperone, she’d had no choice after all. But then Leticia’s health had declined and while she did not rejoice in her chaperone’s failing health, it had been an excellent excuse not to attend any social gatherings in the last three years. Besides, six failed Seasons seemed quite pathetic and she wasn’t about to humiliate herself for a seventh.
‘Here I am, in my tenth year since I came out. I think it is quite apparent that I will never find a husband.’
‘That is simply not—’
‘Oh, it’s all right, Miss Warren, I have accepted this fact and rejoice in it.’ She paused. ‘My brother, the Duke of Harwicke, has pledged to take care of me for as long as I need.’
It had been after her last Season, when no gentleman had offered for her, that he had made the remark. Trevor was not being unkind, only pragmatic. Georgina was painfully shy, and too plain, and despite years of being on the so-called marriage mart, no man had come close to buying what she had to offer.
‘Did you not wonder why my brother did not find me a chaperone? And why you were hired to be my companion instead?’
Miss Warren’s mouth pressed tight. ‘I did not think it my place to ask.’
‘I am no longer a fresh young debutante with a reputation to protect—meaning I’m much too old for a chaperone. I have no other close relatives, and with my brother unmarried, there is no other lady of the house.’
‘And propriety requires that another woman, such as a chaperone, be present when he is not around?’
‘Exactly. I didn’t want him to find another distant relative who would drag me to balls and society functions, so we compromised by hiring a companion for me.’ Trevor had been against it, but she’d told him that eventually, once she was old and feeble, she would need one anyway, so why waste time when she could just have a companion now and be done with it.
‘Surely you could still find a husband, if you searched hard enough.’
She snorted. ‘The Ton, if they remember me at all, has already placed me on the shelf.’
‘The shelf?’
‘Oh, you know, the shelf.’ She gesticulated with her hands, raising her arms high up. ‘The spinster shelf, where all the other old, unmarried ladies of the ton gather dust. Frankly, I am relieved that I no longer have to go into society.’
‘Ah, so it is not the outside you object to, but the people.’
‘Precisely. I would find the outside quite tolerable, except for the pervasive presence of people.’
She shuddered again at the thought of bumping into acquaintances and having to exchange pleasantries with them, never mind actually making conversation. No one could ever speak their mind or be honest or even just excuse themselves when they grew tired of the interaction because it was impolite.
How everyone simply agreed that this was how society worked was beyond her. People were always such a drain on her mind and body—whenever she came back from any sort of event she often found herself exhausted for hours afterwards.
And when she thought of those events where crowds of people gathered...
No, she did not even want to think of that.
With her great-aunt indisposed, she no longer had to worry about that.
She also didn’t have to be around people any more. And while she said a silent prayer to the heavens to keep Leticia in good health, she also added one of thanks—because now she stayed at home all she wanted and never had to see any member of the Ton for as long as she lived.
‘So you do not plan to attend any balls, accept invitations to teas, musicals, or even take morning calls?’
‘No, no, no and no,’ she said decisively. ‘I have packed up my ball gowns, left my dancing slippers to gather dust, and tossed out all my dance cards.’
‘I see.’ Slipping her hand into her pocket, Miss Warren retrieved an envelope from her reticule. ‘I suppose that means you do not want to attend the planning meeting for this year’s Christmas fundraiser for St Agnes’s Orphanage for Girls?’
‘I—’ Georgina stopped short. ‘When?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’ Her companion waved the envelope around. ‘This was addressed to Miss Leticia Abernathy but, seeing as she is no longer your chaperone, Dawson thought to give it to me. The people at the orphanage probably hadn’t been informed about Miss Abernathy’s retirement. It’s a wasted effort, though, seeing as you don’t—’
‘Of course we will attend—we always do,’ Georgina exclaimed, snatching the envelope from Miss Warren’s fingers.
‘Is that so?’ Miss Warren asked wryly. ‘I thought you said you didn’t venture into society?’
‘This is not society,’ said Georgina, holding the envelope to her chest.
Aside from her brother, there were only two other things she loved most in the world—St Agnes’s Orphanage and Christmas, and this yearly fundraiser was a convergence of the two, which was why she made an exception to her no-socialisation rule for this particular event. Besides, many of the ladies who participated in the efforts preferred to plan the event and not necessarily do any of the work, or even mingle with the children. Why on earth they would do that, she never would understand, but it didn’t matter to Georgina.
‘And the people?’
‘These are not just people, either. These are children.’
And how she adored the girls at St Agnes’s. Children were such a joy to her—so refreshing and so honest. They spoke whatever was on their mind about anything that interested them, and with such varied conversation Georgina never found herself bored or impatient to leave. If there was one regret she had with regard to her spinsterhood, it was that she would never have her own children. But that was why she enjoyed visiting St Agnes’s and did so regularly throughout the year.
‘We must prepare for our visit,’ Georgina declared as she crossed the room towards the door.
‘Now? But the committee doesn’t meet for another two days.’
Looking over her shoulder, Georgina said, ‘Which means we have very little time.’
And so, two days later, Georgina and Miss Warren, with the help of the Harwicke House staff, loaded up the carriage with baskets of goodies for the children and the staff at St Agnes’s.
Miss Warren peeped out of the window when the carriage stopped. ‘That didn’t take too long at all. Have we passed Hanover Square?’
‘Yes. We’re just at the end of Boyle Street.’
‘Right in the middle of the busy commerce district?’ the companion asked, astonished. ‘I know there are a few orphanages around London, but most of those are in the East End or far in the outskirts of the city. How ever did St Agnes’s manage to acquire a building in this neighbourhood?’
‘It’s quite unusual, I know,’ Georgina began. The door opened, and as she took the footman’s offered hand she continued. ‘But according to Mrs Jameson—she’s the matron here at St Agnes’s—one of the orphanage’s first benefactors was a wealthy merchant who offered to let the entire building to them for a very reasonable price.’
‘Interesting...’ When she alighted, Miss Warren glanced up. ‘This is not what I expected.’
The carriage had stopped outside the doorstep of a four-storey building made of red brick and stone. On one side was a milliner’s shop and on the other was a solicitor’s office, while a bank occupied the building across from it. There was no sign outside proclaiming what it was, and it certainly did not look out of place on the busy commercial street.
‘It was not what I expected either, when I first came to visit,’ Georgina said. ‘And I assure you, the children here are treated well. It’s not very old—established only three years ago. There are twenty-seven girls living here and the oldest is about ten years old. They have tutors who help them learn to read and write, and one day, when the children are old enough, we hope to help them find a trade or learn skills to help them into adulthood.’
Georgina walked up to the door and knocked. Seconds ticked by, but no one answered.
‘Do you think perhaps they are out?’ Miss Warren asked.
‘There’s always someone here, and the children don’t usually all leave at the same time.’ She looked around them. ‘Hmmm...there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here yet.’ Usually by this time carriages would be waiting in line to drop off the other ladies in the planning committee. ‘Are we sure it’s today?’ She had glanced at the letter last night, but wondered if she’d read it wrongly.
‘Yes, I’m quite certain, and the letter said ten o’clock in the morning,’ Miss Warren said.
‘Then why—?’
The door flew open, cutting Georgina off.
‘I’m sorry, we—Lady Georgina!’ The harried-looking woman on the other side curtseyed. ‘What are you doing here, milady?’
‘Mrs Jameson,’ she greeted here. ‘Miss Warren, this is Mrs Jameson, the matron of St Agnes’s. Mrs Jameson, this is Miss Sophia Warren, my new companion, who has replaced Great-Aunt Leticia.’
Mrs Jameson wrung her hands together. ‘Oh, dear, is your aunt...?’
‘Great-Aunt Leticia has simply retired,’ she said.
‘I see. That must be why you did not receive the letters.’
Georgina frowned. ‘We received one letter. I thought the planning committee was to meet today for the Christmas fundraiser?’
‘Oh, milady, I sent out the second set of letters yesterday, but yours was addressed to Miss Abernathy. We have had to cancel the fundraiser.’
‘Cancel?’ Georgina exclaimed. ‘Why ever would you cancel the fundraiser? It’s the biggest event for St Agnes’s, and raises enough money to cover the rent for the year.’
‘I... Please come in and I’ll explain.’
The matron ushered them inside into the foyer. Georgina could not help but notice how the house seemed unusually quiet. Usually as soon as she entered, children were running up and down the stairs or rushing about, not to mention laughing or shouting down the corridors.
‘Would you like some tea, milady?’
Georgina searched Mrs Jameson’s face. The usually pleasant woman had dark circles under her eyes and the lines on her forehead were etched deeper than the last time she had seen them. ‘Please just tell us what happened, Mrs Jameson.’
The older woman sighed. ‘I’m afraid there’s no nice way to say it. We are losing our home.’
‘What?’ Georgina exclaimed. ‘How? When? Why?’
Mrs Jameson’s lower lip trembled. ‘We received notice to vacate the premises the day the invitations for the planning meeting were sent out.’
‘Vacate? But what about your patron?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Atkinson passed away a few weeks ago.’ Mrs Jameson sniffed. ‘I didn’t even know he had died. His heirs have sold the building and now we are being evicted.’
‘When?’
‘On December the twenty-fifth.’
Miss Warren gasped. ‘What cruel man would make orphans homeless on Christmas Day?’
Georgina had the same thought, though the words she would use to describe such a man were much more severe than ‘cruel’—not to mention something she would never say in polite company. ‘Who is the new owner? Do you have the eviction letter?’
‘Yes, it’s in my office. Come, I’ll show you.’
They followed Mrs Jameson to her office, where she produced the letter. ‘Here.’
Georgina took the letter and began to read it, her blood simmering with rage as she read its contents. ‘“Notice seeking possession...vacate premises... December the twenty-fifth...”’ The edges of the letter crumpled under her fingers. ‘“Face legal action...”’ Her gaze scanned up to the letterhead on top of the document. ‘“ES Smith Consolidated Trust”?’ She chewed at her bottom lip. ‘What is the “ES Smith Consolidated Trust”?’
‘The name of the business who bought the building from Mr Atkinson’s heirs,’ Mrs Jameson supplied.
‘Have you tried to speak with the heirs?’ Georgina asked. ‘Or with the owner of this company?’
‘The solicitor who brought the letter said that Mr Smith—that’s the new owner—was not interested in any counter offer unless it was for more than the amount he paid.’
‘And how much is that?’
‘Much more than we can afford.’
‘And that is?’ Miss Warren enquired.
When Mrs Jameson said the amount, Georgina gasped. ‘He paid that much?’
The matron nodded. ‘And see...there’s not much we can do except pack our things and prepare—’ The creaking of the door hinges interrupted her. ‘Charlotte! Eliza! What are you doing here?’
Two children rushed inside, both of them running to Georgina. ‘Lady Georgina! Lady Georgina,’ the smaller of the two cried as she wrapped her arms around her legs. ‘You’re finally back in London.’
‘Yes, Eliza, I’m so sorry I took so long. Great-Aunt Leticia needed more time to settle into her new home in Hampshire, then I had to wait for Miss Warren to join me—’ She nodded up at the companion ‘—before I could come for a visit.’
‘Lady Georgina, we have to leave St Agnes’s,’ said the taller one, Charlotte, her blue eyes sombre.
‘Yes, Mrs Jameson told me.’
‘Where will we go?’ Eliza’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t want to leave at Christmas.’
As Georgina knelt down to their level to wrap her arms around both girls, her temper beginning to rise once more. ‘Do not fret, girls. I shall take care of this. Mrs Jameson, Eliza, Charlotte—if you’ll excuse us...’ Rising, she straightened her shoulders. ‘We must be on our way.’
‘And where are we going, Lady Georgina?’ Miss Warren asked, puzzled.
Georgina waved the eviction letter in the air. ‘To the offices of the ES Smith Consolidated Trust.’
‘I’m happy to report profits are up.’
No seven words made Elliot Smith happier than those just said by his recently hired man of business in London, Andrew Morgan.
Well, usually they did.
However, he’d heard it so many times that the effect on him had lessened over the years. Indeed, he had more money now than he knew what to do with, and would not be able to spend it all in ten lifetimes. His reputation for making spectacular returns on his investments had earned him the nickname ‘The Midas of San Francisco’. Others said he had the luck of the devil.
Elliot scoffed silently. Only fools and dreamers sat around, hoping and waiting for their luck to turn. Everything he had now, he had earned with his own sweat and blood.
Having grown up dirt-poor, Elliot only had two assets: himself and time. He’d seen how his own wastrel of a father had squandered both, barely eking out a living, throwing away his hard-earned money on drink and women while Elliot and his mother nearly starved at home. When Ma died, when he was ten, he’d vowed to never waste a single second of his life. Sitting in that grubby hovel alone, next to his mother’s lifeless body, his father nowhere to be found, he’d vowed that he would make something of himself.
Still, he did not discount the fact that he had a knack of being in the right place and time. If one could call such a thing ‘luck’, then he supposed his first stroke of luck had been his mother passing and his being forced to work, finding odd jobs in New York City’s harbours, doing everything from selling papers to shining shoes just so he could eat. But it was at this time that Elliot had observed the ferries crossing the river, carrying dozens and dozens of passengers to and from their destinations. This had given him the idea to run his own service. And he’d begun to form a plan in his mind—specifically, a ten-year plan with one goal: get himself out of poverty.
So, he’d worked even harder, saved every penny he could, borrowed some, and purchased his first periauger when he was fifteen. He’d ferried people from Staten Island to Manhattan, and in a few short years had a fleet of ships plying New York’s rivers.
Having seen success with his first ten-year plan, he’d created another one with a different goal: expand his business interests. It was then that his second stroke of luck had come, when gold was discovered in California. Elliot, however, had not rushed west to mine for the precious metal. No, he’d moved to San Francisco and invested in steamships to transport the gold back to the east coast. By focusing on transport, and monopolising the routes southward through Nicaragua, he had expanded his business empire and grown his fortune.
Perhaps some might say that his third turn of luck had been selling his steamship business for a king’s ransom and moving to New York just before all the gold had dried up. However, it hadn’t quite been good luck that had made him move back east, and then even further east across the Atlantic to London.
‘Mr Smith?’ Morgan repeated.
His voice was firm, but polite, in the way that only these posh English people could sound.
‘Apologies, Morgan.’ Elliot sat up straight behind his desk and drummed his fingers on the surface. ‘You were saying the owner of that textile factory in Manchester is ready to sign the contract for the purchase?’
While he might have been lost in his thoughts, Elliot never missed any business-related chatter.
‘Yes, Mr Smith.’ Morgan slid a piece of paper across the table. ‘Here are the final figures. Mr Davis is quite eager for the sale to proceed as soon as possible.’
Elliot quickly scanned the document, checking the final number at the bottom. From his calculations, after investing in newer looms, he’d be able to turn a profit in two years—three years at the most.
‘All right.’ He quickly signed on the line at the bottom. ‘See that the payment is released.’
‘Of course, Mr Smith.’
Though Morgan did not say it aloud, Elliot could tell from the man’s tone and countenance that he did not believe the factory was a wise investment. Indeed, if one were merely looking at profits for the last five years, Davis Mills’ numbers were abhorrent. They were bleeding money faster than a dinghy with holes. Elliot, however, had seen the potential in the business, as well as in the textiles industry in England. And with Davis eager to sell, he was getting it at a bargain.
Morgan’s scepticism was rather refreshing at this point.
Back in San Francisco, everyone waited for Elliot to make his move before making theirs. After his success in the steamship trade, he’d invested in various businesses and real estate around the city, and everything he’d touched had indeed turned to gold, earning him the ‘Midas’ moniker. Word had spread around town and soon every businessman and investor watched his every move. Stocks would rise and fall based on his decisions, and the value of companies would skyrocket if he even expressed an interest in them.
Elliot had made more money than God, and continued to expand his empire in San Francisco. And, seeing as his previous ten-year plans had brought him great success, he’d created another one—only this one would cement his legacy. At that time he’d been a man thirty years of age, and there were things expected of him. He was not immortal, but there was one way he could live for ever and be remembered after he passed.
And so he’d set the goal for his next ten-year plan: marry a refined woman of quality who would elevate his status and give him a passel of bright young children to pass his legacy on to.
But, as he had learned, one could plan for any eventuality, but life could always drop an unexpected situation at his doorstep.
‘If that is all, Mr Smith...’
Elliot rose, signalling an end to their meeting. ‘Yes, that’s all. If you could—’
‘Mr Smith!’ The door flew open and a flustered-looking young man of about twenty rushed inside. It was his assistant, Michael Grant. ‘Apologies for the intrusion—’
‘We were just finishing up.’ Still, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, as Grant knew better than to interrupt his meetings. ‘What is it?’
Grant swallowed. ‘S-Sir, one of your house staff just arrived and asked to see you.’ As he stepped out of the way John, one of his footmen, hurried inside. He looked even more harried than Grant.
‘M-Mr S-Smith, I... I...’ he stammered.
Elliot tapped his foot impatiently. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Er...’ He took a deep breath. ‘I came to tell you that the governess is quitting. Again.’
Ah, yes.
The unexpected situation.
Quite literally dropped at his doorstep five years ago on a foggy night, in the form of two little girls, aged four and eleven.
‘And that is all?’ he said, irritated. ‘Why rush here like the sky is about to fall on our heads? Surely my sisters are not alone, fending for themselves in a ten-bedroom house in Mayfair?’
He employed a staff of nearly two dozen people at his newly purchased London home, all hand-picked by him, from the butler to the scullery maid.
‘Er...no, sir. B-But there is the matter of the fire.’
He sprang from his chair, slamming his palms on the table. ‘Fire?’ Terror struck him straight in the chest. ‘Where are Anne-Marie and Lily? Are they safe? Was the fire brigade called? Well, John? Speak!’
The footman turned even paler. ‘I—I—I...’
‘Breathe, man,’ Morgan urged. ‘Then speak.’
John took a great heaving breath before words spilled out of his mouth. ‘Everything is under control. Your sisters are safe and the fire was limited to the drawing room. The staff was able to put it out. But Miss Jones is quitting—and not quietly, she says, unless you come and pay her this month’s wages, plus severance.’
So the shrew wants money.
While Elliot had lots of money—he could certainly meet her demands without even blinking—that wasn’t the point. When he’d hired Miss Jones as a governess, he’d had the most peculiar inkling about her. Her references were impeccable, and she was in demand, having just left the employ of a baronet whose children were now full-grown. However, something about her just hadn’t felt quite right. But he’d been desperate because he’d already had three governesses quit, and they’d only been in England for six months. He’d hired Miss Jones anyway, because he was far too busy, but he should have trusted his instincts.
It was obvious Miss Jones was much too nosy and shrewd for her own good. It was likely she’d figured out why Elliot had left New York and was now in England, and was using that to her advantage.
She was blackmailing him, plain and simple, and threatening to ruin his and his sisters’ reputations if she was not paid out.
Damn, if he didn’t hate her right now, he would admire her audacity.
‘Grant, grab my coat, my hat...’ He let out a huff. ‘And my cheque book. John, go back to the carriage and wait for me.’
The footman nodded and his assistant scurried off.
‘Morgan?’
‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Smith,’ the older man said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ Tipping his hat, he turned and left.
Elliot drummed his fingers on his arm as he waited for Grant to retrieve his things. Too anxious to sit, he faced the large window behind his chair, the grey London winter sky greeting him. There was something soothing about the scene outside, in some ways reminding him of foggy days in San Francisco. Ironically, it had been on a day like today that two little girls had appeared on his doorstep all those years ago.
Well, not so little any more.
Lily was now nine years old and Anne-Marie sixteen, practically a woman.
Still, he would never forget the sight of the two of them in threadbare clothing, shivering and clinging to each other at his doorstep. There’d also been a woman with them, who claimed to have known his father—in the most biblical sense—and said these two waifs were his half-sisters.
He hadn’t seen nor heard from his father, Harold Smith, since he’d left New York for California. When his ferry business had begun to prosper, he’d spent a good deal of money trying to reform his father—employing him on his ferries, paying off his debts, and even setting him up in a modest apartment in Queens. Yet his father had always turned to drinking and gambling, never showing up to work and running up more debts. Before he’d moved to San Francisco, he had given Harold a generous bank draft and told him that after this he would never receive a single cent from Elliot ever again.
Seeing as his father had conveniently died a year prior, and could not be there to prove her claims, Elliot hadn’t been about to take this stranger’s word for it. But then the two girls had looked up at him with the same green eyes he had inherited from Harold. He could not deny that they were related to him, so he’d had no choice but to welcome them into his home. The woman—their mother—had not been interested in staying, but she’d been very aware of Elliot’s recent good fortune. She’d happily left with a fat roll of bills, leaving behind her daughters.
The sound of the door opening jolted him out of his thoughts. Running his fingers through his hair, he spun around. ‘Damn it, Grant, what took you so—?’ He sucked in a breath. ‘You’re not Grant.’
No definitely not.
For one thing, the figure standing in the doorway was a woman.
‘No, sir, I am not.’
Elliot fixed his gaze on this woman who had dared to enter his office without an appointment. She looked like any of the dozens of fashionable English women he’d seen shopping or having tea on Bond Street. The fabric of her white and red walking dress was fine silk, and the wool cloak around her shoulders was trimmed with mink. He couldn’t tell what colour her hair was, because most of it was hidden under a large bonnet, though he spied a bit of blonde. Her face was nothing out of the ordinary, with round cheeks and the tip of her nose all pink from the chilly air. As he locked his gaze on hers, he found himself staring into large eyes the colour of bright copper pennies.
He cleared his throat. ‘Can I help you, Miss...?’
‘Lady Georgina Abernathy,’ she said.
A lady.
Now he was intrigued. ‘Lady Abernathy.’
‘It’s Lady Georgina,’ she corrected. ‘There is no Lady Abernathy.’
His interest was piqued further, and his mind began to form possibilities.
‘So it is a courtesy title? From your father?’ As part of his preparation for his move to England, he had read Debrett’s Peerage.
‘Yes. He was a duke.’
Now that caught his attention. Dukes were the highest ranking of all titles in England, save for royalty.
Her pink nose twitched. ‘Are you Mr ES Smith?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘The owner of ES Smith Consolidated Trust?’
‘Yes, I am Elliot Smith and I own this company, as well as a few others.’
Her brows snapped together. ‘You’re American?’
‘Yes. May I ask a question as well?’
‘And what is that?’
‘What are you doing here, Lady Georgina?’
‘I...’ She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ve come to ask you not to evict the residents at number fifty-five Boyle Street.’
‘Boyle Street?’ He rubbed at his chin. ‘Ah, yes. I purchased that building from a Mr Andrews...no, Atkinson.’
And it had been a fine deal as well, as Atkinson had been eager to sell to stave off his creditors. Desperate sellers always offered the best bargains.
‘But why would I need to evict the residents? Isn’t it some shop or factory?’
Lady Georgina’s mouth pursed. ‘I’m afraid it is not, Mr Smith. Number fifty-five Boyle Street happens to be St Agnes’s Orphanage for Girls.’
‘An orphanage? In the middle of a busy commercial district?’
She let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You bought it, didn’t you? You didn’t know it was an orphanage?’
‘I did not.’ He frowned. While he had instructed Morgan to clear the building, Atkinson definitely hadn’t mentioned there were any occupants, nor that they were orphans.
Damn.
‘Oh, now I see!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘There was a mix-up then? And you really aren’t evicting the girls?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
She blinked. ‘You mean to throw over two dozen orphaned girls onto the street?’
Elliot ignored the knot forming in his gut and erased the vision of shivering waifs out in the cold her words had conjured in his mind. He’d made many cutthroat decisions in business before, and this one would be no different.
But his next move would no doubt be the most ruthless one he would ever make.
‘I could change my mind. I mean, you could change my mind.’
‘Me?’ Her delicate brows slashed downwards. ‘And what is it I can do to change your mind?’
‘Marry me.’
Her bright coppery eyes grew to the size of saucers. ‘I—I b-beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. Marry me and I will rescind the eviction notice.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
He was deadly serious. After all, this was the very reason he’d come to England: to marry a refined, blue-blooded English lady.
To say that the two little girls had thrown his entire life into chaos would have been an understatement. The children had been practically feral, for one thing. They hadn’t known how to behave in polite company and both had run wild, sending his household into disarray. From what little bits and pieces they’d told her, their mother was likely a whore and they’d lived in a bawdy house before they’d left for San Francisco. He’d immediately hired a nanny for them, but had known a paid staff member would not be enough to turn the girls into proper and civilised young women. It had been evident that the girls needed a strong feminine influence.
Then there was his ten-year plan to marry and have children he could pass his legacy on to. If news came out that he had two illegitimate sisters—and it would, because San Francisco was still a small town—no woman would want to marry him. Unless he sent his sisters away, which he would never do.
And so he’d decided to move back to New York, setting them up in a grand house on Fifth Avenue where he could simply pass the girls off as his legitimate sisters. He had determined to find a suitable wife with all the graces and refinement necessary to raise his sisters and ensure that they, too, would make good matches when they were of age.
Flush with cash from the sale of his steamship business, he’d bought and sold a few properties in and around the city, invested in some businesses, and after a few years had once again been reaping the benefits of his golden touch.
But Elliot had miscalculated this move.
He had mistakenly thought his newfound wealth would allow him to mingle with the Knickerbocker set, so he could find a suitable wife—preferably with the pedigree that could open the right doors for him and his sisters. New York’s high society salons, however, had remained closed to those who were not one of them. Though the society matrons of New York had not known about the girls’ illegitimacy, they also had not known about him—and that had been the problem. Except for business acquaintances, Elliot had no social connections in the city—at least none that mattered. To the elite of the Fifth Avenue, no matter how much money he made, how many properties he owned, or stocks he traded, he would never be good enough to marry one of their daughters.
After three years of attempting to infiltrate New York’s upper crust, with no victory in sight, he’d been about to give up when he’d seen a story in the newspaper about a duke and duchess from England visiting New York. There was to be a grand celebration that would take place at the home of the Commodore and Mrs Baldwin, the foremost socialites in the city. Apparently the Duchess was a born-and-bred American—the former Miss Grace Hathaway from Rockaway, New York, daughter of Richard Hathaway, who owned hotels along the beaches in Queens. Elliot didn’t know the girl, but he remembered Hathaway—a jovial old fellow who swore like a sailor and drank like one too, with the manners of a goat. Elliot couldn’t believe that Hathaway would be invited to this celebration and not him, just because his daughter had married some fancy duke from England.
This news, however, had given him an idea for a new ten-year plan. If Miss Grace Hathaway of Rockaway could marry into English society and come back as a celebrated success, why couldn’t he?
However, he’d been in London for more than six months now, and he had yet to meet any eligible ladies. It seemed the English elite were even more prejudiced than New York’s. In fact, Lady Georgina was perhaps the closest he’d come even to speaking with anyone who had a potential to be his bride.
‘Well, Lady Georgina? What is your answer?’
The entirety of her face had turned red. ‘I am not a chattel to be exchanged or bargained for,’ she blurted out. ‘I will not sell myself to you. How dare you suggest something so utterly offensive?’
‘When you say it that way, it does sound offensive...’ He paused. ‘But what is marriage anyway? When you take it down to its barest bones, it’s nothing but a contract between two parties from which both benefit. Not much different than let’s say...a deed of sale. There’s even property and money exchanged. In this case, if you become my wife, I will simply void the contract.’
And he would have his refined English bride, who would not only elevate his status, but that of his sisters. Once they came of age they, too, would marry well and provide him with nieces and nephews who could continue his legacy. Why, Lady Georgina wouldn’t even have to bear him an heir. After the wedding they could live separately, like most married couples of the Ton.
‘Y-You are insane, Mr Smith,’ she spluttered.
‘Why not? I’m very wealthy, you know, and would be generous to my wife. I could buy you jewels, gowns, houses, a yacht. I have several houses in America and I am negotiating to purchase a lovely estate in Surrey. Anything you want that I don’t have, I can provide.’
It was just money after all.
Her face turned even redder and her hands curled into fists at her sides. ‘I will not marry you. I will never marry you.’
Elliot ignored the small pang in his chest at her words. ‘All right, then. I guess your orphans will have to find another home.’
‘You’re a fiendish, miserly...’ She seemed to struggle to find the words to describe him. ‘Scrooge!’
‘A what?’
‘Scrooge,’ she repeated. Her eyes turned bright with fury. ‘As in Ebenezer Scrooge! Ha! You even have the same initials—ES. I can’t believe you would be so cruel as to toss orphans out of the only home they’ve ever known! And on Christmas Day too.’
‘Christmas?’ He looked at the calendar on the wall. ‘Is it Christmas already?’
‘It’s December the first,’ she informed him.
‘Ah, so it’s not Christmas yet.’
‘But it is the season of Christmas,’ she said. ‘Does that not mean anything to you?’
If she had thought that would help her in pleading her case, she was, unfortunately, deeply mistaken.
Because, for him, Christmas wasn’t a special day. It wasn’t even an ordinary day—at least not since he’d woken up that one Christmas morning and found his mother coughing, her body weak as a baby bird’s. She’d been hiding her illness for some time and the cold weather had made it worse. They’d had no money for a doctor, so she’d died in their makeshift shack on the Lower East Side.
‘Elliot, come here,’ she had rasped. ‘There is something I need you to do for me...’
His mind blocked off that memory instantly.
As the years had gone on, Christmas had become just another day to him. He never celebrated, or decorated, and he certainly never gave or received presents. The closest he’d come to celebrating it had been in the last five years, if only to indulge Lily and Anne-Marie, watching them open presents on Christmas Eve. However, he let his staff deal with the festivities, and on Christmas Day itself he preferred to spend the day at the office, where he could actually get some work done as no one was around to disturb him.
Lady Georgina turned those pleading copper eyes on him. ‘Can’t you find it in your heart to allow the children to stay, Mr Smith? Their rent was paid to Mr Atkinson every month without delay.’
He’d seen the figures, of course, and had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing at the dismal amount they’d been paying. It had been barely enough to pay the taxes.
‘You know my terms, Lady Georgina.’
Her eyes blazed once again. ‘I told you, I will not—’
‘Then we have no deal.’ He crossed his arms over his chest in a firm, final motion.
She let out a small high-pitched sound as her lips pressed together. ‘Good day to you, then, Mr Smith.’
‘Good day, Lady Georgina.’
He didn’t even wince when she slammed the door behind him. Instead, he turned back to the window and glanced out. Moments later, Lady Georgina marched out of his offices and into the magnificent carriage waiting on the street. He continued to watch the carriage as it rolled away, disappearing into the distance.
‘Mr Smith?’ Grant poked his head in. ‘I heard voices and didn’t want to interrupt.’ He held up the coat and hat in his hands. ‘The cheque book is in the front pocket, sir. Shall I cancel the rest of your meetings for the day?’
‘No need.’ Elliot blew out a breath and forced Lady Georgina out of his thoughts. ‘This shan’t take very long. I expect we’ll be back within the hour.’
