One Golden Ring. Cheryl Bolen
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the remainder of the play Fiona watched Mr. Birmingham, who watched his beautiful mistress glide elegantly to and fro while saying the most suggestive things to the men who shared the stage with her. Once when Fiona was staring into Mr. Birmingham’s box, his gaze flicked to hers. And held. Fiona quickly looked away.
Though she dared not risk staring at him anymore, she could not free her mind of the exceedingly rich Mr. Birmingham. During the final curtain call, she asked, “Is Nicholas Birmingham married?”
“No,” Trevor said. “Deuced awkward for a man in his position to find a bride.”
“I should think Mr. Birmingham could buy any woman in the kingdom.”
Trevor shrugged. “The late Mr. Birmingham raised his sons to be gentlemen. Had the best education his wealth could buy, use only the best tailors, speak the King’s English and all that. But they’re still Cits. Too good for women of their own class and not good enough for women of our class, though I daresay their father had hoped for an aristocratic match for the eldest boy, Nicholas.” Trevor’s head inclined toward Mr. Birmingham’s box.
While Fiona and Trevor waited outside the theatre for their carriage, shivering from the December night’s frostiness, Fiona half wished to see Mr. Birmingham to confirm that he was as handsome as she remembered, as handsome as he appeared across a dark theatre, but he was nowhere in sight. She supposed someone of his vast wealth never had to wait for anything.
Once she and Trevor settled in her family’s rickety coach she broached the subject that had dominated her thoughts all evening. “I’m planning to ask Mr. Birmingham to help me free Randy.”
Trevor’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious!”
“Why?”
“Because the man’s mercenary. He doesn’t give away his precious hoards of money. You’ll not be asking for a few guineas. What you need is a fortune. Men of Birmingham’s ilk don’t give away twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Fiona squared her shoulders and spoke firmly. “I mean to strike a bargain with him.”
“My dear lady, you have nothing left to bargain with. All your father’s property—except that which is entailed—has already been sold off. You’ve nothing to offer as collateral.”
“I do have something,” she whispered.
Trevor spun toward her. “Pray, what?”
She took a deep breath. “Myself.”
For once Trevor was speechless. When he recovered enough to close his gaping mouth, he said, “A viscount’s daughter cannot marry a Cit!” His eyes narrowed. “Besides, have you not always said you would marry only for love?”
Her lips thinned. “I once believed in love, but you know what became of that. Since I shall never love again, why shouldn’t I marry a man who can save my brother’s life?”
“Randolph wouldn’t like it above half if you was to throw yourself away on the likes of Birmingham. Even if the man is devilishly handsome.”
A sudden rush of tears filled her eyes. “It’s not as if I’m not already dead inside, Trevor, and if I were to be fortunate enough to tempt Mr. Birmingham, I would at least rejoice over saving Randy.” Her voice cracked. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had something to rejoice over? In the past sixteen months I’ve lost Mama, then Warwick, then Papa, then the family fortune.” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost Randy too.”
Trevor took her hand and pressed it between his own gloved hands. “I know, my pet. Things have been dreadfully wretched for you. If I had a feather to fly with, it would be yours.”
“But neither of us has a feather to fly with. That’s why I must throw myself at Mr. Birmingham.”
Trevor winced. “I beg that you wait, my lady. Surely we can think of something else.”
She shook her head solemnly. “No, Trev. You said yourself twenty-five thousand pounds is a fortune. We’ll never come up with that much money. And I only have until next week.”
“I should like to wring your brother’s neck,” Trevor muttered in a guttural voice. “I told him he had no business rushing off to The Peninsula. Look what’s it’s gotten him.”
“He didn’t know Papa would die and leave his finances so muddled, and Randy couldn’t have known those wretched bandits would abduct him.”
“Still, he should have stayed here with you after that beastly business with Warwick.”
“But he was as upset as I when Lord Warwick married. Randy had offered for the countess himself.”
Trevor’s lips stretched to a flat line. “He’d only known the countess a few days, certainly not long enough to form the kind of attachment to her that you had with Warwick. Pray, how many years had you loved Warwick?”
Her heart stung at the memory. “Thirteen,” she said in a hoarse whisper. It was still difficult for her to believe the man she had loved since she was twelve and been pledged to for three years had married someone else. It was still difficult to imagine a future in which she wasn’t Edward’s wife, wasn’t Lady Warwick. It was still difficult to accept that she would likely go to her grave without knowing a man’s love.
“If I knew how to use pistols or swords I’d have called Warwick out myself,” Trevor said.
The image of the milksoppish Trevor brandishing a sword brought a smile to her lips. She squeezed his hand even more tightly. For as many years as she had been in love with Warwick she and the diminutive Trevor Simpson had been the greatest of friends. “I don’t think I hate him anymore, nor do I still love him,” she said with resignation. “All that’s left is a huge hole in my heart.”
When the carriage pulled to a stop in front of Trevor’s lodgings at Albany, he turned to her. “I beg that you don’t do anything rash.”
“Where does Mr. Birmingham live?”
“Doubtless in some unfashionable neighborhood you can’t be seen in. Piccadilly won’t be finished until the Italian painters complete the ceilings.”
She lowered her fine brows. “Does Mr. Birmingham have offices in The City?”
“He’s known as The Fox of the Exchange—but you must know women cannot go to the Exchange.”
She smiled. “Women cannot go to Tattersall’s, but I went there.”
“Now see here, Lady Fiona! You simply cannot go into The City unchaperoned.”
“I’m not, Trev dearest. You’ll come with me. Tomorrow morning.”
Nicholas Birmingham rose from his broad desk to greet the foreign secretary, Lord Warwick. Despite that he had not seen Warwick in many years, Nick had kept abreast of the peer’s affairs, including his jilting of the lovely Lady Fiona Hollingsworth last year. How any man could reject such a perfect creature was beyond Nick’s comprehension, and the fact that the most superior Lord Warwick humiliated the lady did nothing to endear him to Nick.
What a remarkable coincidence that Warwick should call the very morning after Nick saw Lady Fiona at the theatre. All morning Nick had been unable to purge his mind of the vision of the elegant blond beauty staring across the dark theatre at him. How lovely she had looked in her sapphire gown that matched her extraordinary eyes.
Nick was somewhat surprised that a man of Warwick’s importance had sought him out. Though the two men had been at Cambridge together, their disparaging stations had prevented any sort of friendship from forming. “Your servant, my lord,” he said. “Please be seated.”
Warwick sat on a sturdy wooden chair that faced Nick’s desk.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” Nick never wasted time on pleasantries. As long as the sun