My Fair Mistress (2 page)

A log snapped, blazing ash roaring upward into the flue, half-startling her as she proceeded deeper into the room. Shelves heavily laden with books lined the walls, while thick woolen carpets woven with exotic Chinese symbols covered the floor, bathing the space in a cascade of browns and reds.

A branch of lighted candles stood on the corner of a massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room; watery winter sunlight making an ineffectual attempt to shine through the pair of tall, double-hung windows beyond.

A man sat behind the desk, writing something in a thick, leather-bound ledger. As she approached, he set down his pen and looked up. It was only then that she saw him clearly.

Perhaps the notion revealed a measure of prejudice on her part, but she’d been ready to encounter ugliness and severity, picturing him as some sour, cruel-lipped old man, shriveled by age and the callous nature of his profession.

Instead, the sight of him drove the air from her lungs. Rugged and very nearly beautiful, he possessed an aura of pure masculine power. Its impact shot like an energy bolt straight through to her toes. And he was by no means old—far from it. In his early thirties, if she guessed correctly, he was fit and in his prime.

His features were refined, even elegant, with a straight nose and strong, square chin. Long dimples creased the bronzed skin of his angular cheeks, intriguing slashes that framed a firm yet winsome mouth. His hair was brown, but not an ordinary brown—as rich and decadent as the chocolate that arrived each morning on her breakfast tray. He kept it short, trimmed in the current fashion, a few tendrils left to droop invitingly over his high forehead.

Yet for all his beauty, his eyes were what sent a shiver rippling over her skin. Bright and penetrating, they were the same translucent green as cool river water on a new spring day. Eyes of power and insight. Eyes of deep intellect. Eyes that seemed as if they could reach inside a person and pierce clean through to the soul. She wondered if this was how Archangel Gabriel had appeared on the eve of the Fall—dangerous, deadly, and sinfully appealing.

Watching him rise to his feet made her pulse quicken, his lean height complementing the impressive width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. Dressed in a conservative shade of blue, he wore the well-tailored clothing of a gentleman. Everything about his appearance, from pristine cravat to polished Hessians, spoke of tasteful, understated elegance.

He quirked a single dark brow at her bold perusal, his own curiosity about her undisguised. “Lady Hawthorne, I presume?”

His words startled her out of whatever trance she had apparently fallen into, abruptly recalling her to her purpose.

“Yes,” she replied. “And I assume you are Mr. Rafe Pendragon, the man who makes loans.”

“Among other investments and financial dealings, yes. I see you are a woman who likes to get straight to the point, but first, why don’t you allow me to take your cloak?”

Julianna realized she had been so mesmerized by him that she’d forgotten she still wore her pelisse. Now that she recalled it, she also became aware of how warm she had grown, perspiration beginning to dampen her collar. With a nod, she reached up and unfastened the garment’s clasp.

Moving behind her, Pendragon lifted the fur-lined cloak from her shoulders. His actions were nothing but polite, his large hands careful not to touch her in any way. Yet he was too close, his physical presence unnerving, overwhelming.

Suddenly breathless, she took a hasty step forward.

“You must forgive Hannibal,” he said as he crossed to drape her pelisse neatly over the back of a chair. “He’s never been much for the refinements.”

Did he mean The Tree? So the brute had a name, did he?

“Then perhaps you ought to consider employing someone else to greet your front-door callers.”

An amused gleam shone in the financier’s gaze. “No doubt. But he has his uses.”

Yes,
she thought,
I can well imagine some of the uses to which he might be put. Such as frightening the supper out of imprudent youth like my brother.

“Would you care for a refreshment?” Pendragon asked. “Tea, perhaps? Or a sherry?”

Every syllable that came from his lips flowed with the warm richness of a fine red wine. He spoke like a gentleman, the cadence and intonation of his words bespeaking a life of culture and education. So what was he doing working for a living? Making loans and investments and trading on the Exchange?

She wondered at his upbringing. He was no ordinary middle-class Cit, that was for certain. If she had met him while shopping on Bond Street, she would have taken him for a gentleman. Might have inclined her head and granted him a polite smile as they passed. Clearly, he had the bearing to move easily among members of her class, even those who prided themselves on their elevated status and the innate superiority of their birth.

So who was he to be nearly a gentleman and yet not one? It was an intriguing mystery indeed.

Her curiosity almost got the better of her, questions stacking up like tiny dominoes on her tongue. Abruptly, she shook off the wild impulse to pry.

This is not a social call,
she scolded herself. She’d come to rescue her family from the very brink of disaster—her dear brother and sister, who meant more to her than anything else in this world. She needed to focus on that fact and only that fact.

“No, thank you,” she said, refusing his offer of a drink. “I should prefer to discuss the reason for my visit here today.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He walked behind his desk, then gestured a hand toward a chair on the opposite side. “Pray be seated and tell me why you have come.”

He remained standing while she arranged herself on the seat before he took his own. Silently, he waited for her to begin.

Her heart thumped, a familiar, half-sick rush of anxiety returning to twist uncomfortably in her stomach. She clutched her reticule and drew a breath, wondering how best to start.

“I am Lady Julianna Hawthorne,” she stated, her words dwindling to a rapid halt.

“I believe we’ve established that, my lady.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. Suddenly she wished she’d taken him up on that drink. Knowing she would lose her nerve if she didn’t get on with it, she compelled herself to speak. “I am told you’ve had business dealings with my brother, Harry Davies, the Earl of Allerton.”

His face remained impassive. “His lordship and I are acquainted, yes.”

“I understand he owes you a sum of money, a debt whose repayment is due very shortly.”

Pendragon inclined his regal head. “As you say.”

“Which is why I have come…to discuss the loan on Lord Allerton’s behalf.”

He raised a sardonic brow, censure darkening his gaze. “I take it he can’t pay and has importuned you to plead his case, has he? I had thought your brother possessed a bit more pride and sense than that.”

A flush rose in her cheeks, further heating her already warm skin. “His pride is very much intact, as are his faculties. Actually, Harry knows nothing of my visit today. If he did, he would be greatly displeased. But I felt compelled to meet with you nonetheless.”

She paused and lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “My brother is over-young, Mr. Pendragon, only twenty, and still learning how best to manage his affairs. Our father died a little more than a year ago, and I fear Harry wasn’t yet ready to assume the pressures and responsibilities that come with a noble title. But he is a fine young man, a good boy, who simply needs time to find his feet. I can assure you he has every intention of satisfying his obligations.”

“Then he ought to have used his head instead of foolishly squandering his money. What was it, gaming or women?”

Her eyes grew wide.

Pendragon gave a rueful shake of his head. “Both, I see. Allerton’s certainly been a busy boy, has he not? His vices, however, are really none of my affair.”

“Actually I should think they are, under the circumstances. I cannot defend Harry’s ill-considered behavior, but I can assure you he is extremely sorry for what he has done. I promise you he will do everything in his power to make things right if but given the chance. You seem a reasonable man. Maybe you would be willing to grant him an extension. Another ninety days, perhaps—”

“Your pardon, my lady, but what good would that do? If Allerton doesn’t have the funds now, there’s little chance he’ll have them three months from now. The outcome will be the same.”

“But surely everyone deserves a measure of compassion.”

“Just so, which is why this good city has any number of fine churches and charitable organizations. I, however, run an investment business and am not in the habit of granting imprudent favors.”

Julianna refused to let herself tremble.
Harry is right,
she thought,
this man has no heart.

The Dragon relaxed back in his chair. “Now if I might be permitted to ask you a question.”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“I’m curious to know what your husband thinks of you coming to see me in your brother’s stead. Or is he also unaware of today’s visit?”

She stiffened. “I am a widow, sir. I make all of my own decisions.”

“Well, that explains a very great deal.”

His remark rankled, but she decided to let it pass.

“If you refuse to grant my brother an extension,” she continued, “then I am prepared to offer you an alternate form of payment.” Tugging open the drawstrings of her reticule, she reached inside. “Here is a list of several very fine paintings in my possession. Included among them are an original Tintoretto and an extremely beautiful Caravaggio, old master works of great value.”

She passed him a sheet of paper, then returned to dig inside her reticule again. “I have also brought several pieces of jewelry. They include a necklace, bracelet, and ear bobs—a matching set given to me by my late husband at the time of our marriage. The sapphires and diamonds are worth at least five thousand pounds. They’re completely mine and in no way entailed to my husband’s estate.”

Opening the velvet pouch, she drew out the jewels and set them on his desk for display. The gemstones winked and sparkled with vivid life in the candlelight.

He leaned forward. “Quite lovely.”

Heartened, she pressed on. “I did some calculations and concede these items do not fully repay my brother’s loan. But if you would agree to accept these valuables now, I will promise to pay you the remaining thousand pounds in cash come the first of April. My quarterly allowance is placed into my account then, you see.”

Pendragon set aside the list of oil paintings. Steepling his fingers, he rested the tips underneath his chin and regarded the woman on the opposite side of his desk.

She really is magnificent,
he mused,
lush and lovely and so full of earnest animation and optimistic hope.
What a shame he was going to have to disappoint her yet again.

How dare Allerton,
he thought. What had the careless whelp been thinking to endanger his family’s welfare and reputation in such a manner? Even if the earl was completely ignorant of his sister’s presence here this afternoon, the young lordling deserved nothing less than a sound thrashing for his irresponsible behavior.

A lady of Julianna Hawthorne’s obvious sweetness and grace should not be discussing business with a man like him. She shouldn’t be discussing business at all. Instead she ought to be home sipping tea with her circle of elegant friends, laughing and trading amusing stories, not be here in a stranger’s study doing her level best to barter her finest jewels to him.

His jaw tightened. Striving for a pleasant yet firm tone, he proceeded. “These are very fine items, my lady. However, they are of insufficient value to cover your brother’s outstanding obligation.”

Her pretty lips fell open. His gaze followed, drawn like a firefly to a flame. Unable to prevent himself, he visually traced their shape, finding them full and pink and every bit as enticing as a dish of ripe June strawberries. And soft. Oh, they looked soft enough to put silk to shame.

Shaking off the sudden rush of desire, he returned to the matter at hand. “The jewelry would need to be appraised,” he said. “Assuming the stones are real—”

Her eyes flashed with offense.

“—which I have no doubt they are,” he amended. “I imagine the set would fetch a little over two thousand pounds.”

“Two thousand, but—”

“Resale, your ladyship. What a person pays for jewelry in a shop is far more than what the pieces are actually worth. As to the paintings, art, even fine art, is a difficult commodity to trade. It could take months to sell the paintings, and then likely for far less than you have estimated.”

Her mouth drooped, her lovely brown eyes awash with disappointment.

For a moment he felt sorry for her, an uncharacteristic urge rising inside him to grant her the boon she so desperately sought. But as he’d already told her, a few months more would make no difference, not in the end. Experience had taught him that if a man couldn’t pay his shot by the due date, chances were excellent he would never be able to pay it at all. Besides, he reminded himself, a businessman who let his sentiments override his sense soon finds himself playing the fool. And one thing he had never been was a fool.

“Perhaps I have some other belongings that might make up the difference,” she continued. “I own a very nice set of silver, and there is my husband’s book collection—”

He held up a hand. “Please, do not continue to put yourself through this turmoil. It’s of no use. Even if all the items you’ve mentioned were worth what you imagined them to be, they still wouldn’t cover your brother’s vowels.”

“But I don’t understand,” she sputtered. “Of course it should satisfy the debt.”

“How much do you imagine he owes, then?”

“A little over ten thousand pounds.”

He sighed. So the whelp hadn’t been honest with her. Delusions, he mused, were a convenient thing.

“His debt is triple that amount.”

“Triple?” Her voice quavered.

“Yes. He owes roughly thirty thousand pounds.”

The blood drained from her cheeks, leaving them parchment pale. “Good God,” she whispered.