Read the book: «Marriage Made in Money»

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

London—June 1810

Amethyst Amelia Cameron’s father loved all horses, but he especially loved his matching pair of greys.

‘I doubt you will ever see others as fine, Papa, if you do indeed intend to sell them.’ Amethyst tried to keep the worry from her voice as the carriage drew to a halt in the narrow lane outside number ten, Grosvenor Place. Things were changing without reason and she didn’t like it.

‘Well, there’s the problem, my dear,’ Robert Cameron replied. ‘I had the best and now I want for nothing more. Take your mother, for instance. Never found another like her. Would not even have tried to.’

Amethyst smiled. Her parents’ marriage had been a love match until the day her mother had died of some undefined and quick illness, seven hours short of her thirty-second birthday. Amethyst had been all of eight and she remembered the day distinctly, the low whispers and the tears; storm clouds sweeping across the Thames.

‘I do not think you should part with the pair, Papa. You can easily afford to keep them. You could afford ten times as many; every stallion and mare here in the Tattersall’s sales for the next month, should you want.’ Looking across the road at the generous roofs of the auction house, she wished her father might order the carriage homewards, where they could talk the matter over at their leisure.

It was not like him to decide on a course of action so quickly and she hoped he might have second thoughts and withdraw his favoured greys before the Monday sales the following week.

Yet as her father hoisted himself from the carriage his breathlessness was obvious, even such a small movement causing him difficulty. The unease Amethyst had felt over the past weeks heightened, though the sight of a man alighting from a conveyance ahead caught her attention.

After the dreadful débâcle of her marriage Amethyst had seldom noticed the opposite sex, shame and guilt having the effect of greying out passion. But this man was tall and big with it, the muscles beneath his superfine coat pointing to something other than the more normal indolence the ton seemed to excel at. He looked dangerous and untamed.

His dress marked him as an aristocrat, but his wild black hair was longer than most other men wore theirs, falling almost to his collar, the darkness highlighted by white linen. An alarming and savage beauty. She saw others turn as he walked past and wondered what it must be like to be so very visible, so awfully obvious.

‘Have Elliott send the carriage back for me around two, my dear, for I am certain that will give me enough time.’ Her father’s words pulled her from her musing and, dragging her eyes from the stranger, she hoped Robert had not noticed her interest. ‘But make sure that you have a restful time of it, too, for you have been looking tired of late.’

Shutting the door, he encouraged the conveyance on before placing his hat on his head. His new coat was not quite fitting across his shoulders where a month ago it had been snug.

Amethyst caught her reflection in the glass as the carriage began to move. She looked older than her twenty-six years and beaten somehow. By life and by concern. Her father’s actions had made her tense; after visiting his physician in London a week ago he had taken his horses straight to Tattersall’s, claiming that he did not have the time for livestock he once had enjoyed.

A shock of alarm crawled up her arms and into her chest as she saw her father in conversation with the same man she had been watching. Did her father know him? What could they be speaking of? Craning her neck to see more of their engagement, she was about to turn away when the stranger looked up, his glance locking with hers across the distance.

Green. His eyes were pale green and tinged with arrogance. In shock she broke the contact, wondering about the fact that her heart was beating at twice its normal rate.

‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered and made certain not to look his way again. Tapping her hand hard against the roof, she was also glad when the carriage slowed to its usual speed of just above walking pace.

* * *

Lord Daniel Wylde, the sixth Earl of Montcliffe, came to Tattersall’s quite regularly just to see what was on offer. Today with the sales about to begin the place was crowded.

‘Ye’d be a man who knows his horseflesh, no doubt?’ An older man spoke to him as they mounted the steps, no mind for introduction or proper discourse. ‘My greys are up and I’d want them to go to someone who would care for their well-being.’

His accent marked him as an East-Ender, the music of the river in his words. A man made rich by the trade of goods and services, perhaps, for his coat was of fine cloth and his boots well fashioned. The well-appointed carriage he had alighted from was beginning to move away, a young woman staring back at them with concern upon her face, but Daniel’s interest was snared by the mention of the greys. The superb pair he had seen yesterday belonged to this unlikely fellow? They were the entire reason he was here this morning after all, just to see who might be lucky enough to procure them.

The Repository courtyard at Tattersall’s loomed, substantial pillars holding up wide verandas and housing a great number of animals and carriages.

‘Your horses aren’t on the block today?’ Daniel could see no sign of the greys and it was more usual for those lots about to go under the hammer to be on display, especially ones so fine.

‘I asked Mr Tattersall for a few days’ grace just to think about things,’ the other man returned, his cheeks yellowed, but his eyes sharp. ‘To give me time, you understand, in case I should change my direction. The prerogative of the elderly,’ he added, a wide smile showing off a set of crooked teeth.

Daniel knew he should turn and leave the man, with his roughness of speech and the impossible manners of the trading classes, but something made him stay. The sort of desperation that one perceives in the eyes of a person battling the odds, he was to think later, when all the cards had been stacked up into one long, straight and improbable line. But back then he did not have the facts of the stranger’s most singular purpose.

‘My name is Mr Robert Cameron. Timber merchant.’ No shame or hesitation in the introduction.

‘Daniel Wylde.’ He could do nothing less than offer his own name, though he did not add the title.

The other man did it for him. ‘You are the Earl of Montcliffe? I saw the insignia upon your carriage outside and Mr Tattersall himself pointed your personage out to me here last week as a man who knows his way around a horse.’

‘Indeed.’ Even with the frosty tone of the reply Cameron seemed unfazed.

‘My greys are this way, my lord. Would you do me the honour of looking them over?’

‘I am not in the market for a purchase.’ Hell and damnation, there was no untruth in that, he thought, his hands fisting in his pockets with the sort of rage he had almost become accustomed to. Noticing others looking his way, Daniel tried to soften his face.

‘But you are renowned for your knowledge of a fine buy in horseflesh and it is that I seek to be assured of. I was only hoping for the chance of an expert’s opinion.’

They had passed beneath the roof delineating the courtyard now and had wandered down into the stables proper. It was darker here and a lot less busy. When the ground unexpectedly fell away the old man tripped, Daniel’s arm steadying him before he lost balance completely.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Cameron’s voice was quieter and the flesh beneath the finely made coat felt alarmingly thin. Life had honed his instincts and Daniel’s were on high alert. This man was not quite as he seemed and he wondered at what was hidden.

‘Here they are. Maisey and Mick. After my parents, you understand, though they will not be billed as such here. Names of high distinction fetch more in the way of coinage, I am told, and so Mr Tattersall thinks to call them after ancient Grecian gods.’

The greys were of Arabian descent, their distinctive head shapes and high-tailed carriage unmistakable. The horses were small and refined, and Daniel could have picked their lineage out easily from a thousand others.

‘Richard Tattersall is a shrewd operator so perhaps you should listen to what he says if you wish to part with them. I know my brother always paid through the nose here,’ Daniel remarked.

Gnarled fingers were held against the jibbah bulge on the horse’s forehead, and it was easy to see that there was no lack of love between the animal and its master as the horse nuzzled closer.

‘Maisie finds any change difficult.’ The catch in his voice suggested he did too.

‘Why are you selling them, then? If you bred them, you could turn a tidy profit without too much work in it. A few years and the money could be double what a sale now would garner.’

‘Time is a commodity I am a little short on, my lord.’ The reply was grave. ‘But you sound like my daughter.’

‘The woman in the carriage?’ Why the hell had he said that? He wished he might take such a question back.

‘My beautiful jewel.’

Again Daniel was shocked. In his circle it was not done to talk of progeny in such glowing terms.

‘Are you married, my lord?’ Another impertinence. Did Mr Robert Cameron always speak without thought?

‘No. Too busy saving England.’ He knew he should adopt a sterner demeanour, but the man was beguiling in his lack of protocol. The memory of a soldier he had once known came to mind. A man who had served with him and saved his life before losing his own on the high hills of Penasquedo. He shook away ennui. Of late the emotion seemed to have hitched a ride upon his shoulders, crouching over everything he said and did; a result of the problems at Montcliffe Manor probably and the cursed debts that had piled up in the years between his father’s indifference and his brother’s high-stakes gambling.

The other looked relieved at his answer.

‘A parent would do almost anything to keep a child happy, you understand?’

‘Indeed, I should imagine such a thing to be so.’

‘I would give my horses without a moment’s hesitation to a husband who had the wherewithal to make my girl smile.’

‘A generous gift.’ Where was this conversation leading? Daniel wondered, as a small seed of worry began to grow.

‘I was married myself for twelve long and happy years before my wife passed on. Well before her time too, I should say, and for a while...’ He stopped and brought out a large white kerchief to dab his face with. ‘For a while I thought to follow. The world is a lonely place to be without the love of a good woman and it was the nights that were the worst.’ Shrewdness lurked above sorrow in Robert Cameron’s eyes.

The stallion had now come over for its share of attention and Daniel had seldom seen another of its ilk; leanly muscled and compact, he was built for endurance, head turned towards him and darkly intelligent eyes watchful. If he had had the money he would have placed it down right then and there because he knew without a doubt that offspring from these two would soon be worth a small fortune on any market in the world.

‘Where did you get them?’

‘In Spain. Near Bilbao. I had heard of them and went over to look. Fell in love at first glance and brought them back three years ago.’

‘Don’t sell them cheap, then. If you hold out for your price, their worth will be increased,’ Daniel advised.

‘You wouldn’t be interested in purchasing them yourself?’

This was not said with any intention at rudeness. It was just a passing comment, a friendly gesture to a stranger. Of course Cameron would think the Montcliffe coffers full. Everybody still did.

He shook his head. If he could have raised the money, he would have bid for the pair in a trice, but that sort of life was finished and had been for a while now. He noticed a few other patrons drifting down to take a look at the greys. And then more came. However, Robert Cameron did not seem the slightest bit interested in singing the praises of his horseflesh any longer which was surprising, given the hard line he had taken just a moment before.

As the crowds thickened Daniel tipped his hat at the timber merchant and made his way out of the crush.

* * *

Three-quarters of an hour later, he was glad to sit down on the comfortable seat of his carriage. His right leg ached today more than it had in months and he knew that the bullet would have to be removed before too much longer. The Montcliffe physician had told him that time and time again, but the worry of being left a cripple was even worse than the pain that racked through him each time he stepped on it.

Throwing his hat on the seat, Daniel leant back into the leather and ran his fingers through his hair. It was too damn long and he would cut it tonight after a bath. His valet had once done the job, but Daniel had let him go, as he had had to do with other staff both at the town house and at Montcliffe.

He cursed Nigel again as he did almost every day now, his brother’s lack of care of the family inheritance beyond all comprehension. One should not think ill of the dead, he knew, but it was hard to find generous thought when any new debt now joined the pile of all the others.

A sudden movement caught his attention and he focused on a group in a narrow alleyway off Hyde Park Corner. Four or five men circled around another and it was with a shock that he realised the one in the middle was the timber merchant, Mr Robert Cameron.

Banging on the roof of the conveyance, he threw open the door and alighted quickly as it stopped. Twenty paces had him amidst the ruckus and he saw the old man’s nose streamed with blood.

‘Let him go.’ Raising his cane, he brought it down hard on the hand of the man closest to him as the scoundrel reached inside his coat for something. A howl of pain echoed and a knife dropped harmlessly to the cobbles, spinning on its own axis with the movement.

‘Anyone else want a try?’ He knew he had the upper hand as the thugs backed off, yelling obscenities at him, but nothing else. They were gone before he counted to ten and there was only silence in the street.

Cameron was leaning over as though in pain, his right arm held to his chest.

‘What hurts?’

‘My...pride.’ As he straightened Daniel saw the grimace on his face.

‘Did you know them?’

The older man nodded. ‘They have been demanding money from me.’

‘Why?’

‘My business is lucrative and they want a slice. One of their number also used to work for me in the warehouse until I fired him for stealing and I suspect he holds a grudge.’ He dabbed at his nose with his dislodged shirt tails. ‘If you had not come...’

‘I will take you home if you give me your direction.’

As Cameron was about to argue Daniel called his driver down from the high seat to give a hand and ten minutes later they were pulling up in front of a large town house in Grosvenor Square.

No little fortune here then, Daniel thought, as he helped Cameron out. He noticed blood had left a stain on the leather seat at about the same time as the other did.

‘If you wait, I will find coinage to cover the cost of the cleaning.’

‘It is of no significance.’

Cameron was now leaning on him heavily and he could feel the shaking of fright beginning to settle. As they came to the front door the sound of running feet was heard.

‘Are you hurt?’ Worry coated the voice of the woman who came into view, the same woman he had seen in the carriage, anger on her face creasing it badly. Cameron’s daughter by his own admission, though she looked nothing at all like him.

‘What on earth happened?’ She reached his side and all but pulled her father out of Daniel’s grasp, the sharp edge of a fingernail carving skin away from his wrist. If she noticed, she did not show it, merely helping her father backwards to a sofa that was perched to one side of the wide lobby.

‘Sit down. You look blue around the mouth.’ Her own mouth was a tight line of consternation, her dark eyes flashing up at Daniel in question. ‘Who did this?’

‘A group of blackguards waylaid him not far from Tattersall’s.’

‘You did not wait for the carriage, Papa. You said to send it at two, did you not?’ As if on cue the big clock in another corner struck the half hour of one-thirty.

‘I h-had done all I needed to at the auction house.’

‘You sold the horses?’ A new tone entered her voice, one of censure and irritation. Lord, the girl was a harpy and with no introduction Daniel was hard pressed to say anything.

Robert Cameron was shaking his head and looking worse by the moment. ‘The Earl of Montcliffe here helped me and brought me home. Lord Montcliffe, may I present my daughter, Amethyst Amelia Cameron, to you.’

Amethyst? His jewel? She did not suit such a name at all with her dark eyes and angry mouth. Her hair was a strange lustreless brown pulled back into a bun that was fashioned in the most unflattering of styles.

As if she could read his mind her expression tightened and she barely acknowledged the introduction. The clothes she wore were serviceable homespun without embellishment. The sort of dress one might wear to a dowdy funeral, the cloth of black showing up her skin as sallow and underlining the smudged circles beneath her eyes as dark bruises.

She was not a beauty, but she was not plain either. Beneath the downcast glance he caught a flash of anger, abrupt and sudden.

Tipping his head at her, he was surprised when she flushed a bright beet red, though she looked away, ringing for the butler to fetch a physician immediately.

Efficient and calm now, save for the remaining stain of red on her cheeks which made her look vulnerable. He wanted to lay his hand upon her arm and tell her...what? He shook the thought away and concentrated on her father, whose eyes were glued to his daughter, a speculative glance within them.

‘I hope you will recover without any ill effects, sir,’ Daniel said. ‘If you wish to take such an assault further with the law and need verification of exactly what I saw, you may call on me.’

Extracting his card from a thin leather holder in his pocket, he handed it over.

‘Thank you for your help, Lord Montcliffe, I have appreciated it greatly.’

Acknowledging the gratitude, Daniel turned to leave, though the daughter, after fumbling in a drawer to one side of the room, came forth with a wad of bank notes.

‘I hope this might help in the way of thanks.’ Her voice was no longer shrill, but the insult of payment was all Daniel could think of.

Without another word he turned and walked from the room, the butler hurrying to show him the way out.

* * *

‘Perhaps I insulted him, Papa, by offering him reimbursement for his trouble?’ Amethyst looked down at the substantial sum in her hands. Every other member of her acquaintance would have taken it and with the thankfulness that was intended, but not the Earl of Montcliffe.

She was irritated with herself for allowing such an awkward meeting, but she had been more than surprised to see the man outside the Tattersall’s auction rooms right here in their town house. She knew Lord Montcliffe had noticed her embarrassment and she chastised herself for even thinking of giving him reimbursement for a deed of honour.

Such a reward belittled the act, she supposed, by reducing it to terms of cold hard cash. She had heard that the ton rarely even carried money, the tarnish of trade and commerce resting instead with their accompanying helpers and sycophants.

Traders and merchants. Even with a princely sum made from hard work, good luck and risky ventures, the Camerons would not be accepted into any of the higher echelons of society.

Well, she could not care. No doubt Lord Montcliffe would be mulling over his encounter with them on the carriage ride home before sharing the story of her clumsy attempt at recompense with his peers at some exclusive ‘members only’ club in the nicer areas of the city. She was so very glad he was gone.

‘You need to inform the constabulary of this assault, Papa. You cannot keep pretending that this matter will simply disappear.’

‘You think I should pay them?’ For the first time ever Amethyst heard a tone in her father’s voice that suggested complete uncertainty and she did not like it at all.

‘No, of course not. Pay once and they will haunt us indefinitely. These people need to be cut off at the roots.’

Her father laughed. ‘Sometimes, Amethyst, you are so like your mother that it brings tears to my eyes.’ He took in a breath. ‘But if Susannah were here I think she would be scolding me for involving you so much in the business that you have forgotten about living.’ The handkerchief pressed to his nose still showed blood appearing through the thickness of the layers of cotton and Amethyst hoped that the physician might hurry. ‘A man like Montcliffe would make you smile again.’

‘I am quite happy as I am, Papa, and as Montcliffe must have every single woman’s heart in London a-racing he would hardly be interested in mine.’

The strange glint in his eyes was worrying for Amethyst knew her father well enough to know just what that meant.

* * *

She wandered across to the mews behind the house after her father had retired. Robert had bought in this particular area in London because of the proximity of the stables that held enough room to house livestock.

The stablemaster, Ralph Moore, was just finishing brushing down Midnight, a large black stallion her father had acquired in the past year.

‘It is a sad day when the cream of our livestock is left to languish in the Tattersall’s stable on view for sale, Miss Cameron. I know it is not my place to criticise anything your father does and he has been a kind and mindful master, but with a bit of patience and some good luck the greys could be the start of a line of horses England has not seen the likes of before. I have spoken of it with him, but he does not want to even consider such a proposition any longer.’

Such words made Amethyst wary. Why would her father suddenly not want the pleasure of breeding his Arabian pair, something he had always spoken of with much anticipation and delight?

Tonight she felt restless and uncertain and the dangerous beauty of Lord Montcliffe came to mind. She wished she had not blushed so ridiculously when he had looked across at her or seen the returning humour in his eyes. The heat of shame made her scalp itch and, reaching up, she snatched the offending wig from her head and shook out the short curls beneath it, enjoying the freedom.

It was finally getting longer. Almost six inches now. Curlier than it had ever been and a much lighter colour. Soon she would be able to dispense with the hairpiece altogether.

If she had been at Dunstan, she would have saddled up one of the horses and raced towards the far hills behind the house. Here in London the moon was high and full, tugging at her patience, stretching the limit of her city manners, making her feel housebound and edgy.

A noise had her turning.

‘When I could not find you I knew you would be here.’

Her father joined her at the side of Midnight’s stall, Ralph Moore’s departure a few moments prior to his room upstairs allowing them privacy. Her father’s left eye was darkened and his nose swollen.

‘I imagined you would have gone up to bed early after such a dreadful day,’ she said.

‘Slumber is harder to find as the years march on.’ His glance rose to her hair. ‘It is nice to see you without the ugly wig, my love, for your skin appears a much better colour without it.’

Shaking her head, Amethyst looked down at the limp brown hairpiece in her hands. ‘I should have a new one ordered, I suppose, but it seems so frivolous for the small amount of time I still have need of it.’

‘Well, it is good to see you happier, my dear. Perhaps the exchange with Lord Montcliffe has given you some vitality? He is a good man and strong. Mr Tattersall spoke of him highly as a lord who can be relied upon.’

‘Relied on to do what?’

‘To look after you. I shall not be around for ever and...’

His sentiments petered away as she began to laugh out loud. ‘I hardly think that was what Mr Tattersall was referring to. Besides, an exalted lord of the realm would have no mind to mingle with a woman from trade.’

‘But if he did, my love, would you have the inclination to consider him as a husband?’

‘Husband?’ Now all humour fled. ‘My God, Papa, you cannot be serious for he would never marry me. Not for all the gold in England. Men like Lord Montcliffe marry women exactly like them. Rich. Beautiful. Young. Well connected. Debutantes who have a world of possibilities at their feet.’

Her father shook his head. ‘I disagree with you. Your mother taught me that those things are not the most important qualities to ensure the success of a union. She said that a partner with an alert and interested mind is worth much more than one of little thought or originality. Besides, we have accrued enough money to lure even the loftiest of the lords of the ton.’

His words seeped into her astonishment. ‘Why are you saying these things, Papa? Why would you be even thinking of them? I am a widow and I am almost twenty-seven years old. My chances of such marital bliss are long since passed and I have accepted that they are.’

In the moonlight her father’s face looked older and infinitely sadder. As he leant forward to take her hand Amethyst felt her heart lurch in worry, the certainty of what he was about to tell her etched into fright.

Midnight’s breath in the moonlight, the call of an owl far off in the greenness of the park, a carriage wending its way home along Upper Brook Street at the end of another busy night. The sounds of a normal and ordinary late evening, everything in place, settling in and waiting for the dawn, allowing all that had happened through the day to be assimilated by a gentle darkness.

The far edge of happiness is here, Amethyst thought. Here, before the crack of change opens up to swallow it. She knew what he would say for she could see it in his eyes.

‘I am seriously unwell, my dear. The doctor does not expect my heart to last out the year in the shape it is in. He advised me to settle my affairs and make certain everything is in order.’

Worse than a crack. An abyss unending and deep. Her hands closed about his, the chill in his thin fingers underlying everything. She could not even negate all he said and the reply she was about to give him was driven into silence by fear.