Seeing Miss Heartstone Read online

  All of which partially explained why Colin had made this journey himself. He surely could have hired an overseer to do it for him. But he wanted to touch the silks and spices with his own hands. He wanted to ensure that the products were as promised.

  And perhaps even more importantly, he didn’t want to let Lord Halbert down. The man trusted Colin to see things through properly.

  “Nearly there, my lord.” The leader of his hired guards, Arjun, pulled to a stop beside Colin. “Just another day and then we will be in the city proper.”

  “How great is our current risk of trouble?” Colin asked.

  Arjun shrugged. “Most of the danger left when we passed through the mountains. Villages like these”—he motioned toward the small houses ahead—“pose little threat to us. The people are too busy worrying about their next meal. They won’t pick a fight that they would surely lose.” Arjun hefted his rifle, punctuating his point.

  Colin nodded. “Carry on, then. I’d like to reach an inn before sundown. Sleeping in a real bed tonight would be nice.”

  Arjun saluted and rode off to communicate with his men.

  Colin took another swig of water.

  Only two more days and then he could report success to LHF.

  Now he simply had to think up a riddle to include in his letter.

  “Really, my dear, I fear I must insist that you cease accompanying me on these . . . excursions.” Mr. Sloan placed a steadying hand underneath Belle’s elbow, helping her tiptoe across the filthy street to their waiting carriage.

  “I need to assess the conditions in my factories, Mr. Sloan. I like seeing my workers’ faces and reading the stories their eyes tell. I’ve said this repeatedly.”

  “Yes, but, it is hardly seemly—”

  “The managers think I am your niece. Miss Rutger”—Belle waved a hand toward Anne at her side—“is here as chaperone. It is perfectly respectable.”

  Mr. Sloan darted his eyes up and down the street. They were in a decidedly grimy section of Bristol. Dung and refuse turned the paving stones into a river of muck. The factory gates behind them dripped with humidity; chimney-smoke clung to the gray stones.

  Belle regretted nothing. The factory visit had been enlightening. She did not adhere to the belief that workers should be kept tired and hungry and desperate in order to be profitable. If anything, she felt the opposite to be true. The drawn faces of the men, women, and children on the factory floor, spinning cotton into fabric, had told her all she needed to know.

  She had long suspected that her manager might be hiding secrets.

  She was not wrong.

  The money she had allocated for providing for her workers had not, in fact, trickled down to them. Worse, she was quite sure she had seen some extremely young children, definitely under the legal age of nine, which Belle already felt to be obscenely young to be working in a factory.

  She would correct the problem immediately. As soon as she could sit down and draft a few letters.

  Mr. Sloan looked around again. “This is no place for two ladies.”

  Belle barely bit back her sigh.

  Yes, she knew this wasn’t precisely ‘proper.’

  Oof! She was so tired of proper and polite and . . . clean. She longed to get her hands even dirtier. To delve and dive into the everyday management of her business, correct the wrongs she saw going on even within her own properties—

  But as a woman, this was all denied her. The best she could do were these occasional visits with Mr. Sloan and vigorous letter writing.

  For all intents and purposes, Mr. Sloan was part advisor, part father-figure. He had been loyal to her father and now was devoted to her. More to the point, he was the man who acted on Belle’s behalf in the business world.

  For example, when she needed to visit a factory to assess a situation, Mr. Sloan would accompany her and Anne. Or when she wished to inspect a new property. Or, well, anything at all. He was her mask and her protector.

  Belle had to trust someone with all her secrets; Anne Rutger as her companion turned best friend and Mr. Sloan as her solicitor were the only two who knew the true identity of LHF.

  Blake still did not know the truth of Miss Belle Heartstone.

  For possibly the millionth time, she pondered how she had arrived in this place with Blake. She had never meant for their correspondence—their relationship, such as it was—to reach this point. She had just intended to send him the money as a thank-you and then go their separate ways.

  But he had replied and she had replied, and she had found herself in the middle of their friendship before really meaning to.

  And now, nearly three years later . . . things had traveled too far. Too many people depended on her and Blake making wise decisions. Too many depended on them together as partners.

  This factory visit was an excellent case in point.

  They stopped beside the carriage, Mr. Sloan lowering the steps and lifting a hand to help Belle inside, because heaven forfend that she should step into a carriage unassisted—

  But just as she placed her hand into Mr. Sloan’s, a dark shape leaped from the shadows, pushing Belle with one hand and reaching for the reticule dangling from her wrist with the other. Startled, Belle screamed and reflexively jerked her arm away, staggering sideways into Mr. Sloan.

  Mr. Sloan caught her, holding her upright, but his hands were tangled in her pelisse.

  Sensing his moment, the thief reached for her reticule again, clearly intent on what he thought might be money inside.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  The man had just wrapped his hand around Belle’s wrist, when Anne smashed her umbrella across the thief’s head. The momentary distraction was long enough for the coachman to leap down and restrain the man in a headlock.

  The sound of a gun cocking froze them all in place. The thief stilled in the coachman’s hold, though his hand still held Belle’s wrist. Anne panted beside them.

  “Hold there!” Mr. Sloan had a pistol pointed at the would-be thief.

  Belle blinked in surprise, eyes darting between the gun and Mr. Sloan. She hadn’t even realized that he had anything like that on his person. She yanked her arm from the thief’s grip.

  Fear and surprise chose that moment to catch up with her. Energy flooded her body, followed quickly by horror. How would this situation have gone if their would-be assailant had a pistol instead of Mr. Sloan? All of Mr. Sloan’s prior warnings tumbled through her brain.

  Hands shaking, Belle hugged her arms, rubbing warmth back into them. Without Mr. Sloan’s preparation . . .

  She lifted her eyes, meeting those of the man in her coachman’s grasp.

  The man panted, face muddy, eyes wild. A ragged scar cut across his left cheek and nose, and he seemed to be missing his left ear. His clothing, Belle noted, was little more than rags. More to the point, his left hand was only a stump. Though he couldn’t be much older than herself, his blue eyes held a lifetime of struggle.

  Belle could not remove her gaze from him. Emotions winged through her, so chaotic she could scarcely catch them.

  “Hold him, Mr. Reynolds, until I can fetch a constable.” Mr. Sloan’s tone was brisk.

  There was something about the thief’s eyes. A sense of terrible desperation.

  “No!” She held out a staying hand.

  Everyone stilled.

  “My dear,” Mr. Sloan began, “this man is a law-breaking thief—”

  Belle didn’t hear the rest of his words; the sound of her own heartbeat drowned out all else. She finally put together what the man’s clothing had once been—a soldier’s uniform.

  Oh!

  His obvious injuries suddenly made more sense. Swallowing back her fear and righteous anger, Belle continued to hold the soldier’s gaze.

  “What is your name?” she asked him.

  He licked his lips, his head still at an awkward angle from Mr. Reynold’s tight hold.

  Mr. Reynolds rattled the man. “Answer the lady,” he growled.
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  “Thomas Kincady,” the man rasped.

  “Formerly of his Majesty’s army?” Belle asked.

  After a brief hesitation, Thomas nodded. “Lost me ‘and and ear at Waterloo. Got caught in a saber charge.” He waved the stump of his missing hand at her.

  Any remaining righteous anger drained from her. So much suffering was held in those simple facts. This man had been gravely wounded defending Britain against French aggression.

  And society repaid him with poverty and desperation.

  “Why do you need my purse?” Belle lifted her wrist, the reticule dangling from it. Thomas’ eyes followed the motion.

  “Miss Heartstone—” Mr. Sloan began again. “—this man tried to rob you. There are a thousand like him in just this part of the city—”

  “Let him speak, please, Mr. Sloan.” Belle kept her tone firm.

  She nodded toward Thomas.

  A long pause.

  “Me family ‘asn’t eaten in three days,” Thomas finally said. “M’ wife and children need food.”

  The words could be a lie. Belle had no way of knowing.

  But . . . somehow she doubted it.

  Though subtle, Thomas reminded her of Blake. They didn’t look much alike, she supposed, but the sense of underlying strength was the same. Thomas would do what he must to provide for his own.

  And so Belle asked herself the same question she always did: What would Blake do if he were here?

  Honestly, she had no real idea.

  But she’d like to think that Blake would talk to the man. That he would understand why Thomas Kincady had landed here, snatching reticules from seemingly helpless women. His crime would probably have him transported at best. At worst, he would face a hangman’s noose.

  “We will not call the constable,” Belle said.

  Mr. Sloan bristled. Mr. Reynolds frowned. Thomas sagged in relief.

  Belle ignored them all, tugging her rumpled pelisse back into place, righting her skewed bonnet.

  “Tell me your story, Thomas,” she said.

  To My Lord Marquess

  May 12, 1819

  Dear Blake,

  I have attached a separate letter for you with the details of your latest shipment. I do believe you will have enough to clear the rest of the debts left to you by the previous marquess. Also, I understand congratulations are in order for your appointment as counsel to the Governor-General. Well done, my friend.

  Your description of the plight of the poor in India has lingered with me. Particularly, as you rightly observed, such desperation exists everywhere, even in Britain.

  Unable to purge your thoughts from my head, I have spoken with Mr. Sloan about establishing a charity to help soldiers reduced to poverty after Napoleon’s defeat. Though it has been four years, many still do not have gainful employment, having lost limbs in the war. As a former soldier yourself, I hoped you would have insight as to what would be best. I want to do more than simply feed or house these people; I want former soldiers to feel a sense of purpose again.

  To that end, I have my eye on an estate in Dorset of around five thousand acres that is currently empty of tenants. I have been thinking of creating a working farm, of sorts. A place where soldiers and their families could build a new life and tend to the land without the weight of a heavy rent. Your thoughts, good sir?

  As per your repeated requests for me to tell you more about myself, I would plead for your forbearance. I know you value honesty, and I do not wish you to doubt my integrity. There are reasons for my silence on this matter, none of which would impact yourself. Consider me eccentric. I can, however, provide an answer to your request for a description. I am neither tall, nor short in stature. Neither thin nor stout. My hair and eyes are simply brown. In summation, I am utterly unremarkable.

  In an attempt to remind you of home (and perhaps indulge in your taste for things gothic and ghostly), I have included a recently published novel. It is titled The Vampyre and is all the rage in London at present. Lord Byron insists he is not its author, but regardless, it is a guilty pleasure to read. I hope it shivers your spine.

  And I have an answer to your latest riddle—I know of a house where one enters it blind and comes out seeing. What is this house?

  A school

  And one for you: You answer me, but I never ask you a question. What am I?

  Your friend,

  LHF

  Colin set LHF’s letter down on his desk, glancing at the book he had just unwrapped, before shaking his head.

  He pondered the riddle for only a moment—You answer me, but I never ask you a question. What am I?—but as he held correspondence in his hand at the moment, the answer was obvious: A stamp.

  But the riddle wasn’t the phrase that puzzled Colin.

  In summation, I am utterly unremarkable.

  This from a man who had compassion on the poverty-stricken soldiers from the conflict with Napoleon. His Majesty’s government had treated the men so poorly after their sacrifice and service. That Lord Halbert would see this need and try to help in any small way . . .

  LHF had surprising depths of humility.

  Colin added it to the column of Things He Admired about Lord Halbert. His business partner had a brilliant mind for business (and riddles, truth be told), in addition to his clever correspondence. It was a pity that he hid it from his family.

  As their friendship had matured from mere business associates to true friends, he had to wonder why Lord Halbert insisted on the charade. Colin had been trying to coax the older man into revealing himself, but to no avail.

  Colin respected his friend’s wish for privacy. But that didn’t mean that he hadn’t drafted more than one letter announcing that he knew LHF’s true identity, that he wished to bring their correspondence into the light. The letters remained unsent in his writing desk.

  A letter would be well enough, but most of him wanted to thank the man in person. It was enough, for now, that Colin knew his identity.

  “Shall we continue, my lord?” Colin’s secretary lifted his head from the desk opposite where he sat.

  Nearly a year ago, Colin had finally managed to put together sufficient funds to let a proper house with light-filled rooms and a fountain to cool the air.

  Sounds drifted in. The buzz of insects, the distant chatter of monkeys, the incessant clatter of wagons and shouting of travelers beyond his garden wall.

  Colin slipped LHF’s letter inside the book, nodding his head.

  “Yes. Where was I in my dictation?”

  “You had just asked the Governor to forward on the shipping reports, my lord.”

  “Yes. Allow me to continue.”

  Colin rattled off numbers, his secretary dutifully writing down the words. But Colin’s mind was far away, thinking of home. England with its cool rain and fresh winds.

  And his friend whom he would someday greet and converse with in person.

  To LHF

  Calcutta

  March 24, 1820

  My dear friend,

  I appreciate your concern for my safety. Cholera has claimed a great many lives here in Calcutta, but I have remained well. It is perhaps due to your sending me that novel, Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. Once I had absorbed the horror of Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, I daresay even pestilence itself decided to keep its distance. I appreciate you keeping me well-stocked with gothic literature. It has often, ironically, lifted my spirits.

  Mr. Sloan has apprised me of the continued progress being made with Hopewell Manor. I was moved as I read stories of the soldiers who have found hope within its bounds. You have done well and give me far too much credit. I merely matched your own generous donations. Those who fought against the French Terror need my assistance more than do my own coffers. I have instructed Mr. Sloan that I wish to assist in the purchase of the adjacent two thousand acres you mentioned. It will allow us to help so many more.

  I agree with your latest assessment of our trade. I intend to remain here another
year or two, at minimum. I have strong contacts within and without the British community. ’Twould be a shame to leave when there is so much yet to build.

  I greatly enjoyed your last riddle: The more I dry, the wetter I become. What am I?

  A towel, of course.

  And now one for you, which I greatly hope will stump you most thoroughly—

  What is so delicate that even saying its name will break it?

  In friendship,

  Blake

  To My Lord Marquess

  December 28, 1820

  Dear Blake,

  My good friend, I cannot express my abiding sympathy at the passing of your dear mother. I know the depths of your affection for her. Please accept the condolences of a true kindred heart. I find it fitting that your last letter described your journey to a glorious tomb which you called the Taj Mahal. I am still captivated by your description of the place and the drawing you sent. The expanse of inlaid white marble, the spires that soar to heaven. I shall think of your mother resting in a place such as that, surrounded by angels and those she loved.

  Your friend in grief,

  LHF

  Belle swiped at her wet cheeks as she sanded the ink on the letter she had just written.

  Ah, Blake. She knew he would feel his mother’s loss keenly. They appeared to have had a close relationship. She regretted that her letter would take so long to reach him.

  A discreet knock sounded on her study door.

  Sucking in a steadying breath, Belle glanced quickly in the mirror above the fireplace, assuring that all signs of her emotion were tucked away.