She picked up a cup, and it rattled against the saucer as her hand shook.
“Are you all right, Miss Hart?” he asked. “Delilah?”
She wanted to admonish him for his familiarity, but concern was etched across his brow—the concern of a friend, and one who, despite his rank, understood her passion for equality.
“Sir Thomas, I…”
He placed his hand over hers. “You seem unhappy,” he said, “and you have been ever since you returned from Scotland. Did you not enjoy your visit?”
“I did,” she said. “The land was beautiful. Fresh air and mountains.”
“Then why do you look so tired?” he asked. “If that’s what fresh air does for you, I’d advise you to remain here in London. Perhaps I should send for Doctor Lucas.”
She shook her head. “Doctor Lucas is a pompous fool.”
Sir Thomas laughed. “He wouldn’t welcome such a description, though he has a reputation for being overly obsessed with the use of leeches. But I do think you should take care of yourself. Or…” he squeezed her hand, “…let someone take care of you.”
She closed her eyes, but the memory of him invaded her mind, of his eyes which had shone with desire when he’d given her pleasure, and full, sensual lips which had kissed and caressed her to unimaginable ecstasy.
Sir Thomas sighed. “I care about you, Delilah,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“There’s no need,” she replied.
He stroked her hand and turned it over.
“What’s this?”
He tightened his grip and inspected her fingers. “Ink stains? What have you been doing?”
“Writing.”
“Again?” He smiled. “Your industry is to be applauded. I do believe a woman needs an occupation to keep herself satisfied and stimulate her mind…” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “…Particularly a married woman.”
“I…”
“No, don’t say anything,” he said. “But let me assure you that I would never do anything to make you unhappy. Quite the contrary.”
A series of notes rang out from the clock on the mantelshelf, and she rose to her feet.
“What are you doing?” he asked, rising with her.
“It’s half-past three,” she said. “I must be going.”
“Where?”
“It’s not important.”
“May I accompany you?”
“I’d rather be on my own.”
He withdrew his hand. “Then your wish is my command,” he said. “I cannot ask you to honor and obey me—at least not yet. But I hope, one day, you’ll always turn to me for help and support.”
She dipped a curtsey, then left him alone in the parlor.
*
“This is wonderful, Miss Hart. Your best yet.”
The editor of the City Chronicle nodded his approval.
“This essay will cause a stir,” he said. “Society will really question the worth of the aristocracy.”
“But I’ve written a balanced article, Mr. Stock,” Lilah said. “See the conclusion? It argues that the world we live in can never be completely fair. The fortunes and misfortunes of birth are something we must accept, and we should be defined by what we do with our lives. I trust you won’t edit too savagely.”
“You must trust me to know my readership best,” he said. “But the words will be yours—or, at least, Jeremiah’s. I’ll merely make the necessary adjustments to fit the tone of my publication. You wouldn’t believe the difference that can be made by changing just a few words in every hundred.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.
“You trust me, don’t you? Nothing I publish is at risk of being branded as libelous. You’re safe on that count. I wouldn’t want Molineux to lodge a lawsuit against me.”
“It’s not a lawsuit I’m concerned about. It’s your readers and what they might do.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about from my readers,” he said. “They’re respectable, hard-working men, unlike the Frenchies, who’d think nothing of decapitating a nobleman.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Our readership is six hundred, Miss Hart,” he said. “Less than half will read my paper from cover to cover, and an even smaller proportion will be sufficiently moved by what you write to take any action. Compare that to the population of London, which is substantially more than one million. Consider how unlikely it is that even two of my readers will pass each other on the street.
“I suppose the chances are small.”
“There!” he said. “I knew you’d see sense.”
She rose to her feet, and he showed her out. As the clerk ushered her through the door, she spotted a familiar figure ahead of her in the street.
“Sir Thomas! Are you following me?”
His expression betrayed him every time. He’d never be able to cheat at cards.
“Permit me to escort you home,” he said.
“I can manage on my own.”
“Very well, if you insist, I shall leave you in peace.”
Only when Lilah reached the end of the street, did she realize that, for the first time, Sir Thomas had accepted her first refusal.
Perhaps he was beginning to respect her wishes.
Chapter Nineteen
Fraser watched as Hart flicked through the sheaf of papers.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Hart,” he said.
The banker’s attention remained fixed on the documents in front of him. Save a slight tic in his jaw, Fraser might have believed he hadn’t heard.
No wonder Hart had amassed a fortune. The man possessed two qualities needed to succeed in business. The first was the ability to read what others were thinking while concealing his own thoughts behind an impassive, cold demeanor.
The second was a dispassionate ruthlessness. Hart would think nothing of using the letter of the law to ruin a rival.
But perhaps he could be forgiven. Despite his wealth, Hart was still shunned by most of the ton. Only few exceptions, such as Earl Stiles, saw fit to recognize the Harts in public as acceptable acquaintances.
And Fraser himself, of course. However, Hart was not a man to soften his approach to a business deal on account of an acquaintance.
Or a friendship.
In all likelihood, Hart lacked friends. Any friendship with him would exist purely for the benefit of Dexter Hart. And Fraser doubted whether such a man was in need of anyone.
A pity. Fraser found himself respecting the man, even if he couldn’t bring himself to actually like him.
Hart set the papers aside. “Your projected profit figures seem impressive,” he said.
“So, you’ll agree to a loan?” Fraser asked.
Hart shook his head. “Unfortunately, your financial position stands on a knife-edge.”
“I’m experiencing a temporary dip in cashflow until the orders come in,” Fraser said. “The term of the loan need not be longer than a year. Two, at most.”
“No banker of sound mind would lend you a farthing without collateral.”