Page 71

Bint cleared his throat. She’d been staring at the page a long time.

“Concerning the matter of your girls’ school, Mrs. Hinton. Now that Mr. Rowden is not here to impose his will upon you, I feel you and I may pursue a productive discussion about your options. I believe I could arrange, with the endorsement of Mr. Withers, to loan you the funds you would find sufficient to begin such a venture. Ten percent might seem like a steep interest fee, but you have the advantage of dealing with trustworthy advisors who have your best interests at heart.”

Sophronia blinked away the haze of feelings and tried to focus on the practicalities. Her girls’ school. Yes. The longing for that was nearly as intense as the longing for Rowden.

“When we spoke previously, Mr. Bint, you left me with the impression you felt a girls’ school was an unwise investment and not likely to yield income in an appreciable manner. I am curious why you would choose to underwrite my efforts, if that is your belief.”

“Ahem. I believe you have the, er, tenacity to make a going concern of such an enterprise. At any rate, it seems churlish of me not to offer my services. Considering the great esteem I held for your husband.”

Sophronia was tired of hearing Bint fawn over her husband. She was tired of hearing that things had always to be the way Henry wanted them, even long after his death. She was done pleasing that man, and she was done trying to curry favor with Bint.

He had a legal obligation to release the funds due her, and she would spend the last of that money on an expensive and stupid court case if it would show the world she was being treated unjustly. How many other widows was Hinton’s defrauding? How many other women buried their husbands only to find their jointure had disappeared, the pension was gone, the annuities were not what they were promised?

“I need some time to consider my next steps.” Sophronia rose and handed Bint the ledger, a grim weight in her hand. “I presume I may simply write a draft on Hinton’s for any amount that does not supersede the allowance of my personal funds, and you will feel yourself obliged to honor it? Thank you,” she said, overruling his protest as he began to bluster. “That arrangement will suit me.”

As she turned her gaze fell on the heavy cabinet, still furnished as Henry had presumably furnished it, with Sophronia’s things. “How it must weary you to be surrounded with these traces of your predecessor, when this is your domain now,” she said silkily. “I shall do the favor of removing these items from your presence.”

She snatched the pastel portrait of herself in its gilded frame and the dark walnut lion, heavy and polished. These were hers. “I bid you good day, Mr. Bint.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

She had made an excellent exit, worthy of the stage, but Sophronia pulled up short in the broad marble foyer when she saw Rowden was not waiting for her. The common room of Hinton’s had been modeled after Soane’s designs for the Bank of England, with the same soaring windows, interior columns, and deep cornices in the vaulted ceiling. It had been designed to resemble a neoclassical temple, but it could also contain a crowd.

Patrons lined the tall wooden counter behind which the clerks stood, and a few partitions at the end of the room shielded more personal discussions. Rowden came around one as she watched, touching his walking stick to the brim of his hat in a salute to the clerk he was conversing with.

Her heart floated in her chest, buoyed by a new understanding of what he meant to her, and she supposed the smile upon her face was as fond and foolish as any she had despised, and secretly envied, when she caught another woman in love looking upon her beloved.

Rowden and his walking stick. He’d acquired it on a trip to London when he was younger, when the Baron was escorting him and Giles to the metropolis for some proper tailoring. Rowden had adopted the accessory as part of his efforts to reach maturity as quickly as possible and so wriggle out from under the thumb of his dour uncle. Now it was nearly a part of him, so characteristic that the cartoons in the street used it to identify him.

Her smile deepened as he spotted her and headed in her direction. This splendid man, well-dressed, finely proportioned and so fine of feature, was coming to her side. She did not miss the looks of appreciation he earned from women standing with less handsome companions, or the looks of envy from the men lining the counter.

He was a beautiful specimen to look at, but no small part of what was to be admired in his visage came from the strength of character that shone through. It was in the sternness of his brow, the dignified slant of his nose, the steady gaze of his eyes, the curve of his mouth in a smile that said the world often amused him with its foibles, but he was still able to look kindly upon it.

He was so elegant, so beautiful, and so dear. She had become that bread loaf again, warm and expanding, everything in her rising to meet him despite the new chains about her ankles.

“Were your inquiries successful?” she asked as he reached her.

He held out his arm and she took it, endeavoring to restrain that little thrill of triumph that made her want to look around the room with a stare at the other women that said, See? He’s mine.

“On more than one front. I am happy to say my finances have not suffered the same vicissitudes as yours.”

“You bank with Hinton’s?” she asked with surprise.

“The Albion has its accounts here, and so do my partners. Our investments generally yield well, despite the opinions I may hold of the management.”

“I thought you had lost your fortune at the gaming tables.” They stepped from the bank into the busy Strand, as usual congested with traffic.

“And won it back again, several times over. That is the benefit of holding part interest in a club like the Albion. The coffers replenish every night. Where did you come by that?” He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the figurine of the crouching lion, in her hand since it was too heavy to put in her reticule.

“Rowden, really. You will get yourself killed.” She tugged him out of the way of a passing wagon, into the path of an approaching phaeton to whose driver she made an apologetic wave as she pulled him to the side of the street. “You gave this to me. Don’t you recall?”

“I do. But why is it here?”

“Bint had it in his office. Henry must have put it there. Which means,” and she scowled as she tried to muddle through the reasons, “he must have taken it from Foxleigh, for I had it on display for a time in the cabinet in the parlor. Papa liked to show it to guests.”

Rowden picked up her hand, examining the beautiful piece. Sophronia had only known at the time that the gift had delighted her; she’d never considered it might actually be valuable. Was that why Henry had coveted it?

“Ro,” Rowden said, closing his hand around hers. The warmth of his grip sent a flush all through her. “Did you never wonder why Hinton settled specifically on you?”