Being in partnership with Lola was an entirely different kettle of fish. What she’d done to him was all water under the bridge now, of course, and he was over it, but for all that, the terms of Henry’s will were no less incomprehensible.
What reason could the other man have had for doing this? And how could he think a partnership between Denys and Lola could ever work? Oil and water were more likely to mix.
It’s a difficult situation.For her.For you.For everyone.
His morning conversation with his father came back to him, and the little oddities about it began to make sense as he realized he and the earl had been talking about two different women. He had not actually read the letter from Mr.Forbes, he remembered, and he’d assumed Gladys Latham had inherited the Imperial from her husband. The earl, however, having read the letter, had known Lola to be the beneficiary, hence his worried study of his son across the desk, his delicate inquiries as to Denys’s intentions and state of mind, and the surprising suggestion that it might be best to sell their share of their most profitable investment.
It was understandable the earl would be concerned. Lola had visited upon Denys a sort of insanity—a passion beyond all reason, ignited the first time she’d looked at him from the stage and given him the wide, radiant smile for which she was famous. It had been a passion so wild and ungovernable that he’d been impervious to the pleas of his family, deaf to the scandalized whispers of society, and utterly blind to the true character of his inamorata.
Until she’d left him.
It still made Denys grimace when he thought of the money he’d spent, the fights he’d engaged in, the friends he’d almost lost, and the fool he’d made of himself over a bit of skirt who in the end had proved as faithless as the wind. Looking back, he knew there was only one explanation. He had been mad.
He was now sane.
With that reminder, the stunned haze that had been enveloping him all morning dissipated, like a fog lifting off the moors. Though he and the earl had been speaking of two different women, they had agreed on a course of action, and he saw no reason not to carry it through. That required a call upon the family solicitors.
A hansom crawled past, and Denys hailed it. After the driver had navigated the traffic that always seemed to clog Trafalgar Square, Denys was deposited at the offices of Burrowes, Abercrombie, and Moss in Regent Street. Despite his lack of an appointment, Mr.Burrowes was able to receive him and quite willing to allow him use of their telephone. A call to White’s and a brief discussion with his father verified his conclusions about their earlier conversation, and after offering his father a few reassurances of how he intended to proceed, Denys rang off and spent the remainder of the morning ensconced in Mr.Burrowes’s office.
Lola, he learned, had not yet called upon the solicitor, but Denys had no doubt she would, and he intended to stay one step ahead of her. After informing Mr.Burrowes of Henry’s death and the terms of his will, Denys then asked how the partnership could be dissolved. Informed that it would require the consent of both parties, the disbanding of the acting company, and the permanent closure of the theater, Denys inquired if he could buy his partner out instead. Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he pulled out his watch. “I’ve an hour before my next engagement,” he said, and tucked the watch back into his pocket. “Might we draft terms right now?”
“Of course.” Burrowes pulled out a sheet of notepaper, took up his pen, and opened his inkwell. “Let’s begin with the purchase amount. How much do you wish to offer?”
Denys considered a moment, then dictated terms he felt Lola might accept. He must have been generous in his estimate, for Mr.Burrowes raised an eyebrow; but wisely, he made no comment.
When the terms were outlined, Burrowes assured him a draft would be on his desk first thing Monday. Satisfied, Denys left the solicitor’s office, hailed a taxi, and journeyed to Rules, where he discovered that Georgiana and their mothers had arrived before him and were already seated at one of the restaurant’s red-upholstered booths.
Lady Georgiana Prescott, the only daughter of the Marquess of Belsham, could trace her lineage back to William the Conqueror, but her image—pale skin, chiseled cheekbones, noble brow, and aquiline nose—might just as easily have been seen on the temples of ancient Greece. Her dark hair was swept back from her face in perfect waves and caught up beneath the brim of a small, elegant hat, with nary a stray tendril daring to escape.
He and Georgiana had known each other most of their lives. Not that there had been an understanding, precisely, between their families, but it had never been a secret that both sides had always wanted them to make a match of it. Had he not gone to Paris that fateful summer so long ago, the ambition of their families might very well have been fulfilled.
His passion for Lola Valentine had been not only a shock to both sets of parents but also a keen disappointment. And though Georgiana had never spoken a single word about his three years of insanity—she was far too well-bred for that—Denys suspected their parents weren’t the only ones he’d let down by taking up with a cabaret dancer.
During the past few months, however, he and Georgiana had begun to reestablish the quiet fondness of their childhood, and Denys wasn’t as inclined to rebel against the expectations surrounding them as he’d once been. In fact, he’d begun to consider fulfilling them instead. He didn’t know her opinion on the matter, for Georgiana wasn’t one to display her emotions, and their rapprochement had not proceeded far enough for him to inquire, but for the first time, he felt as if something more than friendship between them might be on the horizon.
As if sensing his gaze, she looked up and spied him by the doors. Realizing he was just standing there like a chump, he started forward at once, making his way toward the table where she sat beside her mother and opposite his own.
She didn’t smile as he approached, for she had a slight overbite to her teeth, and being of such a fastidious nature, she was painfully self-conscious about it. But she did tilt back her head to watch him with those grave gray eyes of hers as he came toward them, and despite her serious expression, he thought she was glad he’d agreed to join their party.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, placing a hand on the back of the chair beside his mother.
That did earn him a smile, a little one that curved her closed lips. “I believe it is now. And I’m gratified that you decided to join us at last.”
“At last?” he echoed in surprise. “Am I late?”
She glanced down at the brooch watch pinned to her gray-and-white-striped walking coat. “Ten minutes, I’m afraid. We’d quite despaired of you.”
He thought he’d left Burrowes’s office with plenty of time to spare, but when he glanced at her lapel, he was forced to admit that Georgiana, as usual, was right. “Sorry,” he apologized as he pulled out his chair to sit down. “I had no idea it would take so long to arrive here from Regent Street. Good day, Lady Belsham,” he added to the marchioness. “Mama.”
“Regent Street?” Georgiana echoed, as he sat down. “Is that where you’ve been? No wonder you’re late. The traffic is beastly around Trafalgar. I always allot extra time.”
A declaration that from Georgiana didn’t surprise him in the least. She was never unpunctual. “Shall we order?” he asked, and looked down at the menu card before him.
“I fear we must,” Georgiana replied. “We have shopping to do, then calls to make, and tea.” She tapped her brooch watch briskly. “Time is getting on.”
If there was a hint of rebuke in that, he couldn’t see it reflected in her face. Her expression as she looked down at her menu card was smooth and impassive as ever, and he decided he’d been mistaken. He signaled for the waiter.
“So,” he said, settling back in his seat once their order had been placed, “how are you ladies getting on with your plans for the flower show?”
