Lady of Providence Page 3

  “But she is a woman!” It was Elizabeth’s cousin Frederick now voicing his displeasure. His mother was Thomas’ other daughter. “How in the world is a woman supposed to take on such a position? Is it even legal?”

  “It is,” The solicitor said from behind her, chiming into the conversation, though his contribution was met with glares. It didn’t seem to overly bother him. “There is additional information within the will in which I did not suppose you would be interested at this moment, but Mr. Clarke was meticulously detailed as regards Lady Elizabeth’s inheritance. I was going to speak with her about this in a separate meeting, but perhaps it is best you are all aware. The will reads that ‘the bulk of the estate will go to Elizabeth, for her sole and disparate use, independent of any debts or contracts of her present or future husband.’”

  One of the ladies—one of her cousins, though which, Elizabeth had no idea for they all were so alike—laughed from across the room and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She was well aware that none of them believed she would ever be married, and perhaps they were right. She just wished it was due to choice and not the fact that she remained a cold, practical woman who had no time to simper behind a fan at any gentleman who may be so inclined to look her way. That was likely to change, she thought with a rueful smile, as she was now an heiress and there would be many who would be more than interested in assuming such a fortune, despite however meticulously her grandfather had been in his wording of the will.

  Her cousin Henry clearly misinterpreted her slight smile as he stalked toward her.

  “Did you know?” Henry hissed.

  “Of course not!” Elizabeth exclaimed, gathering herself together. This was no time to allow anyone to be aware that she was at all affected by what they might think. She heard her Aunt Betsy snort but steeled her spine to the responses that she was sure to come. Henry would be the worst, she was well aware, and he didn’t disappoint as he now stood in front of her, a finger in her face.

  “That partnership should be mine,” he said in a low voice, though Elizabeth saw that her grandmother could hear his words and did not look particularly pleased with them.

  “And why would you feel that way?” Elizabeth asked, coolly raising an eyebrow.

  “I am the eldest male grandchild of all the family. I do not have a father who is a lord and can pass down his title and all that is entailed.”

  “I will neither receive such a thing, you do realize,” she replied, reflecting on the fact of how right her grandfather was when he came to Henry—her cousin was a childish idiot.

  “Obviously,” he came up with in response. “And so why would you ever think that you should inherit so great a responsibility as a bank, where it is not only your own livelihood at stake but that of every client who banks with you?”

  “I can certainly handle it much better than you ever could,” she retorted.

  “Oh?” he challenged her. “And what are you going to do? Walk around asking who would like tea every morning? Embroider the clerks’ coverings for the walls?”

  She could have slapped him in the face—her friend Phoebe certainly would have—but Elizabeth took a deep breath and counted backward from ten within her head in order to maintain her calm.

  “I’ll tell you what I would do,” he said, narrowing his eyes, and clearly he had put some thought into this, apparently having been under the impression for some time that he would be the one in the seat behind Thomas’ desk.

  “Do I even want to know?”

  He ignored her and continued.

  “Major changes are needed at Clarke & Co.,” he said with much assurance. “The partnership needs new blood. It can no longer be composed of Grandfather’s contemporaries and favorites. I know of many people who would make terrific partners, and I will be sure to share those names with you—for the time being. I suppose you will be in tomorrow? I certainly would be. Now, as for salaries. They are far, far too high. Why, these people are clerks, not partners, and they need to be paid as such. And Grandfather’s donations, oh, those definitely must be abolished. Why should we pay for someone else’s dinner when those people could work themselves?”

  “That is an interesting question coming from a man who would propose to cut wages of employees—some who have large families to feed. How, then, would you suggest that people keep from requiring donations of those who have more than they need?”

  “You’re going to run that place into the ground,” Henry snarled, and Elizabeth stiffened her spine as she began to retort in an altogether polite, proper, yet no-nonsense manner. Before she could open her mouth, however, a soft hand touched her arm and gently tugged her back.

  “Henry, dear, I am ashamed of you,” their grandmother said as she stared at him. Justine Clarke was nearly eighty, and yet she retained the inner strength that she had always held, which Elizabeth well admired. Justine was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Elizabeth, and was proud of the hold she retained upon her youth.

  “Grandmother?” he asked with some consternation.

  “Your grandfather did as he saw best. All that you are suggesting to Elizabeth would undermine the very principles upon which he built this bank, and for you to suggest that she might do anything other than what she feels is right is ridiculous. When was the last time you attended a church service, child? For your grandfather was there, sitting in the front pew every Sunday, and when God told him to provide for those in need, he certainly did so—through the bank as well as through his own personal means. You would do well to learn from such lessons. Apologize to your cousin. For she doesn’t deserve your idiotic words.”

  Henry fixed his astonished gaze to his grandmother, before turning it to Elizabeth and finally to his own mother, who had come to join them after obviously hearing such a commotion from their corner of the room.

  “Henry,” she said politely. “Perhaps do as your grandmother says, and then we might have a word just the two of us?”

  Elizabeth had no strong feelings regarding her Aunt Betsy. She had always meekly followed along with her husband, and once he was gone, she had only done what she felt was always in Henry’s best interests.

  “Apologies, Elizabeth,” he muttered, and then led his mother away from them.

  Justine turned to Elizabeth and brought her cool hands to Elizabeth’s cheeks. She wore no gloves, having never considered herself requiring dress much more intricate than that in which she had been raised.

  “Thomas knew what he was doing, darling,” she said, her eyes flicking over Elizabeth’s face. “You are the only one he trusted, and I know you are entirely capable. You can do this.”

  Elizabeth nodded, but in reality, she wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter Three

  Exactly one week after the reading of her beloved grandfather’s will, Elizabeth was sitting at her vanity once more, contemplating the night’s upcoming events.

  Attending her grandfather’s funeral was not a practical idea. It was certainly not a proper one—for a woman, that is. And it was, with all certainty, nothing that the Lady Elizabeth Moreland of even two weeks ago would have even contemplated.

  But she was now more than Lady Elizabeth Moreland. She was Elizabeth Moreland, granddaughter of Thomas Clarke, and now the senior partner of Clarke & Co., the largest bank in England. She walked with a target on her back, and yet she was well aware that if she didn’t attend an event such as this, it would only provide her cousins—particularly Henry—with more credence as to why all should be taken from her. How they would do it, she had no idea, but they had certainly vowed to do so.

  After the nightmare that was the reading of the will, Elizabeth had remained stunned during the meal, in which most of her family simply stared at her. Her mother was all smiles, of course, though the moment they had entered the carriage, all she could speak of was how wonderfully wealthy they would soon become, and when did Elizabeth think she could begin to earn income?

  Elizabeth told her mother that unfortunately, she had no idea, but th
at once an acceptable period of time had passed—perhaps, she asked politely, after her grandfather’s funeral had taken place?—she would visit the bank and ask all the questions required.

  “But—” her mother had begun to say, but Elizabeth quelled her question with a look that requested her mother’s silence—for the moment, at least. Her father, a man of fewer words than her mother (although most people were), looked rather smug as he sat with his arms crossed, finally providing the only advice that seemed to permeate his thoughts.

  “Hire the people you can trust, then take yourself out of there. Keep your share, clearly, and collect the funds from it. By all means, do not involve yourself in any operations, Elizabeth. That would only cause utter scandal.”

  That very night, Elizabeth began to itemize her possessions in order to determine what was, in actuality, hers and what was her parents’. She had thought about it long and hard and had decided that she couldn’t ignore what her grandfather had given her, which was the responsibility and the position that he knew she would love with her very soul. In order to move forward, she needed the freedom to come and go as she pleased, to not have to be greeted by her parents and their multitude of questions every time she walked down the stairs.

  Such as at this moment. Elizabeth had waited until her father had left, and she hoped to avoid her mother, who certainly wouldn’t be attending the parade to the church nor the service itself—no, it wouldn’t be at all proper for an English lady to do so, which was certainly how Elizabeth’s mother presented herself, despite the fact that she had been raised in the home of Thomas and Justine Clarke, who had come from modest beginnings.

  Well, Elizabeth may be a lady, but tonight she was going to be true to her grandfather and what he would expect from her. As he had often told her, he cared little for the nobility and their rules, nor did he believe in what was always referred to as a lady’s sensitivities. So now, as his successor and the senior partner of Clarke & Co., Elizabeth was going to the funeral, whether her mother liked it or not.

  Elizabeth looked out the door of chambers and tiptoed down the steps, cringing as the black crinoline rustled with each step she took. Drat this damn material, she thought as she rounded the stairs, pulling her cloak more tightly around her. Her mother would be sitting in the drawing room at the front of the house, and Elizabeth only had to get past the door to the outdoors, where she could go around to the mews and have a carriage prepared.

  “Elizabeth Moreland, where do you think you are going?”

  Elizabeth had been so close—only footsteps away from the door—when her mother appeared in the entrance of the drawing room. The woman could have been a Bow Street Runner, the way she knew anything and everything that was happening not only in her house but amongst all of her acquaintances. It was part of the reason that Elizabeth had to leave as soon as possible, in order to see to her own affairs.

  “I am going to Grandpapa’s funeral, Mother,” she said, holding her head high, and her mother, who looked so like her with her auburn hair pulled back, her sharp, pointed nose, and somewhat hollowed cheekbones, stared at her incredulously.

  “You cannot be serious! Elizabeth, what are you thinking? What if someone were to see you?”

  “That is the point,” Elizabeth said calmly. She and her mother may look alike, but their countenances were entirely different. While they both kept hold of their emotions when out in public, at home her mother was known to frequently cry out in rage or despair. She loved the attention. “Grandpapa would have wanted me to go,” she said more gently now, before changing to a tack she was sure her mother would understand. “Besides that, if I do not go, it is only one more opportunity for the rest of them to convene against me, for them to find a reason to declare me incapable of the position, or Grandpapa’s will invalid.”

  Elizabeth’s mother tilted her head and sighed. “You do, unfortunately, make a valid point. However, your father will be there, as will Terrence. That will be good enough.”

  “No, it will not,” Elizabeth said in even tones. “Neither Father nor Terrence is the senior partner of Clarke & Co. And more importantly, Father did not know Grandpapa as I did and Terrence was always rather… busy. I wish to pay my respects to Grandpapa, Mother. I loved him, very much.”

  Her mother sighed and waved a hand in the air.

  “You spent far too much time with him in that dratted bank,” she said. “You should have been furthering your education instead.”

  “If you are referring to needlepoint and watercolors, then I am afraid I would have failed either way,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle to which her mother seemed to take exception. “Besides, Mother,” she continued, “I do not need your permission.”

  “If nothing else, those parades can be dangerous!” Her mother exclaimed, and Elizabeth softened somewhat at the fact that her mother was, in part, concerned for her safety and not just her reputation.

  “I’ll take an extra groom. Goodnight, Mother.”

  And with that, she was out the door, off to find her carriage and a groom with broad shoulders.

  *

  It was the first time Elizabeth had ever ridden within a funeral possession. It was quite dreary, really, everyone in black as they rode through the dark streets of London, with few lanterns to guide their way.

  Two men of the Moreland household rode atop the carriage in order to see to her protection. Her mother was right in that it was one of the reasons women did not attend funerals—the processions, held at night with the nobility upon their horses and within their carriages—were often seen as easy targets, all clustered together in the dim light as they traversed between the home of the deceased and the church. Why they didn’t simply move the procession to earlier in the day, Elizabeth had no idea. Perhaps because it was all planned by men, she thought with a wry laugh.

  The Clarkes had lived in Knightsbridge for the past twenty years and the church wasn’t far, but more people lined the street alongside Elizabeth than she could have imagined. Her grandfather had been a well-known man, and it was somewhat heartening to see them all here paying their respects.

  She thought she recognized some of the houses they passed as she peered through the carriage windows, but soon they were replaced by the inky hole of what, during the day, would be the green of Hyde Park.

  Her grandfather had loved the park when he had a moment outside of the bank, Elizabeth thought with a smile. She began to review the many memories they shared, nearly all fond. Her reveries, however, were interrupted as the carriage came to a jarring halt. Elizabeth soon heard shouts from her driver and groom, who apparently had been caught unawares as the door banged open, startling her as she jumped half a foot in the air.

  “What have we here?”

  The voice was raspy and guttural, coming from a mouth hidden behind a black beard. The man was rather large—not typical for a thief, that was for certain, but he hoisted himself up as he began to make his way into the small space with Elizabeth.

  “Get out!” she cried as his stench filled her nostrils, but when he looked up at her and grinned, showcasing a few gaps where teeth had used to be, she swallowed hard. He was dressed in a mixture of items, some torn and ragged, others quite fine, which seemed to prove that this was not the first attempt at stealing from people such as Elizabeth.

  She looked about her for anything she could use against him—anything at all, but found nothing, until she felt rather than saw the metal grip of the umbrella she held in her hand. Just as the man attempted to launch himself fully into the carriage, Elizabeth raised her arm behind her and then swung with all her might, the pointy tip of the umbrella crashing into the man’s nose.

  His hands come up to catch the sudden gush of blood but then the door was empty of him as quickly as he appeared—which had actually been a graceful entry for a man his size.

  Whatever was she to do? It seemed the procession had continued on without them, and she had no idea where the man had gone. She doubted he had been alone
, however, for the carriage had stopped nearly immediately as he entered. Even if she could fight off whoever else threatened, she had no idea what state the driver and groom were in, and they would be left alone in the middle of the London darkness.

  Both doors of the carriage now opened, and Elizabeth was chagrined to see a man attempt to enter from the other side. She could perhaps take one with her umbrella, but two? Well, she had to try. A random thought entered her mind that her mother had, unfortunately, been right, but Elizabeth pushed it away, for there were currently far more important considerations.

  As she shouted for help, Elizabeth swung out wildly from one side to the next, attempting to find tender spaces such as the nose and groin, but they were too fast, working together as one pinned her arms back and the other began groping her fingers, her wrists, likely for jewels of any sort, as he held a hand over her mouth to keep her from calling out once more. They could take what they wanted—Elizabeth didn’t care, as long as she came away unscathed—but her pride forced her to fight on despite the hopelessness of her current situation. She bit the man’s hand, and she heard him curse before he raised his hand back. Elizabeth flinched as she waited for the slap in the face that was to come, but when she felt nothing but air, she opened her eyes to see what had convinced the man to hold his anger in check.

  He was gone. Instead, another figure filled the doorway, one that was very tall, very broad and very… familiar. He let out a bit of a growl as he entered the carriage on nearly a leap. Elizabeth ducked her head as he went barreling behind her, knocking over the man who had held her arms.

  She turned in astonishment to thank the man and determine his identity. For as much as she hated to admit that she couldn’t have fought her foe alone, she would never have extricated herself from such a situation without him.