13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Thank heavens she knew so little about bedding.

Or she would know how extraordinarily spectacular last night had been.

And not even in a bed. Just hands and kisses. Simple. Astonishing.

He hadn’t slept so deeply in years.

‘Have you spoilt the raspberry jam?’

Rosanna startled, blushed, then frowned. ‘I do not like raspberry jam. So no, I haven’t.’

Act normal . And normal meant being particular about jam.

Phineas tried to focus on his broadsheet, folded into a more manageable half as he scanned the news. He only read the paper so that if he had the displeasure of engaging someone in small talk, he might find some common ground for conversation. He followed the lines of the columns, took in the headlines, then allowed his longing to draw his gaze over the top of the page, across the cloth, to the opposite side of the circular table.

To Rosanna.

She wore the same dress as she had that day she’d come to the bank, all light fabric and embroidered temptation. A flurry of sordid yearnings contorted in his imagination. From unfastening the pins and combs in her hair and letting her dark curls spill over one shoulder, to tasting her from the arch of her foot to the crease of skin at the top of her thigh, to swiping the table and upending every condiment onto the floor and spreading her before him and feasting on her body until she cried out again and again… Desire pulverised his senses. Last night in the darkness, he’d licked the traces of her taste from his fingers as he’d walked the lonely path to the library, and now, the sweetness and tang of her was all he could think of. He’d woken hungry, famished almost, as if nothing but her would satiate his appetite.

Phineas crunched into his toast.

Morning sun lit the neat braids in her hair and drew a line of light across the table where it streamed in between the rose-patterned curtains she’d had hung up last week. Both of her elbows rested on the table, and she cupped her chin in her palms. She leafed through one of her catalogues, then looked up, her eyes darting across the walls and examining the architraves around the doors and windows.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he drawled.

She paused in her observations, only her gaze shifting to him. ‘This room would be so much brighter with a floral print. Or even something simpler, like this geometric style with gold leaf. Or even paint. Any colour but limewash—’

‘You have your rooms.’ He turned over the paper. ‘Leave me mine.’

She grumbled and flicked the next page in her catalogue. Narrowed her eyes as she scanned the page. Smiled, possibly planning some future conspiracy with Johannes to do whatever it was she wanted to do.

Licked her lips.

Sweet mercy. Those lips.

‘I mean it. Leave my rooms be.’ Phineas shook his paper to its full width and slunk behind the print. She’d already taken too much, inched her way into too much of his life, into his mind, his dreams.

His walls would stay as they were.

The butler, Hugh, entered the room. Past the rim of his paper, Phineas watched as he placed a flat package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a sensible string bow before Rosanna. She tapped it, thanked him, then broke off an end of croissant and dunked it in her coffee. Her tongue caught a drip before it fell. Phineas buttressed himself behind his newspaper and waited.

He turned a page.

Read an article.

Turned another page.

Phineas peered around the side of his broadsheet. ‘You never wait to open a delivery. What is it?’

She placed a protective hand over the package. ‘You won’t be interested.’

Phineas folded his paper and laid it aside. ‘Try me.’

A piercing glance across the top of her coffee cup stilled him. A curl of heat unfolded beneath his skin, like a frond tendril unfurling, and for an excruciating moment, only one image saturated his every thought, his every breath. Rosanna naked. Splayed across his lap. Groaning. Soft. Tensing against his fingers.

Her eyes creased at the corners, and although her mouth was obscured, he knew she was smiling. ‘As long as I don’t bore you with it.’ She cast a look at the door. ‘That is all, Hugh. Thank you.’

As the butler left the room, Rosanna pulled the string. Phineas rose from his seat and slipped around the curve of the table. Her slim fingers stroked the long length of thick brown paper as she folded it aside, first one half, then the other.

‘It seemed prudent to order a set,’ she said, her hand sweeping over the stack of light cream paper. ‘I am so particular about these things, and I thought it might be noticed if I didn’t. And if I had married you in sincerity, one of the first things I would have done is order new stationery.’

From the pen of Rosanna Babbage . It seemed so false, so heavy, especially considering Babbage had only been his name for such a short while. And yet, the intertwined R and B dented the paper so elegantly and purposefully with their calligraphic swirls and thick letters with flowing curls. Like they were always meant to be.

‘Who will you write to?’ he asked. She’d had no callers to the home apart from her family and Elise, as far as he was aware. He rubbed at a tightness in his chest. That was likely because of him. Mrs Babbage did not receive calls the way Lady Richard would have done.

But then, Lady Richard would have been locked in a marriage where her usefulness expired as soon as the ink had dried on a bank transfer.

‘It’s only for appearances.’ She folded the paper over. ‘But the monogram is pretty, isn’t it?’

‘The R and B look nice together,’ he said. The clock in the hall gonged. ‘Come, Hempel. We have business to attend to.’ Phineas buttoned his coat and made for the door.

‘Are we going spying?’ Rosanna scrabbled to her feet. ‘Have you found new information? Do you need me to meet with the ladies at the hotel again?’

He waited for her at the top of the stairs. They walked down to the entrance side by side. Phineas took Rosanna’s coat from Letitia and held it out. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and shrugged it over her shoulders.

‘It’s Tuesday. We have a Spencer and Co. board meeting.’

‘Is that all? I hardly need my coat to cross the road.’ She tucked her hand around his elbow, and they set off across the street at an angle, making for Number 4. ‘You are going to take me spying again, aren’t you? Unless you want to be married to me forever. We need to do something other than wait for me to be kidnapped.’

‘We could, I suppose.’

‘Go spying?’

‘Wait for you to be kidnapped. I might get some peace until I rescued you.’

‘Provided you can rescue me.’ Rosanna laughed, light and carefree, before her joviality became weighted with realisation. Even the birds seemed to quiet their chirping as silence tensed between them. ‘I didn’t intend to sound so mean,’ Rosanna said as she loosened her hold on his arm. ‘We’ll find Imogen. I just know it.’

He couldn’t rouse anger or even a grunt. Instead, he shrugged her off and stepped up the kerb and onto the path.

Who was he to think he could save her—save anyone? He’d positioned himself as some knight for a bright young woman with the world before her, but what if he dragged her down, too? Intentions couldn’t fix the past, nor could they secure the future. What if, with his rashness, he’d made her life worse?

They climbed the stairs. Rosanna clapped the knocker, its brassy thump low and hollow against the wood. She stepped into place beside him.

‘I won’t let that happen to you,’ he said as he forced himself to keep his focus on the swirls and splinters in the wood grain. In his periphery, he caught the turn of her head. ‘I’ll look out for you and keep you safe. Whatever it takes.’

Her delighted laugh banished the tension, and she snuck her hand through the crook of his elbow. Her shoulder rubbed his. She really was exactly his height.

‘Do you really believe I would allow anyone to kidnap me? I would like to see him try.’

The door swung open. The smile on his lips died. Instead of being greeted by the theatrical jubilance of Mason, the Abberton’s butler, they were faced with the grey shadow of Albert, Iris’s father.

He wore a dressing gown over trousers and a white shirt with braces and was wrapping a bright blue scarf about his neck with great concentration. ‘Are you joining us for the opera?’ he asked. ‘I never miss opening night.’

‘Sir!’ Mason clattered into the entrance at a slight jog before skidding to a halt. ‘Iris will take you for a walk after the meeting. Come rest in your sitting room. I’ll help you.’ Mason wrapped an arm around Albert’s shoulders, then directed him to the stairs behind the entrance hall. ‘They’re in the front room. Can you two find your way?’

Proper manners dictated they turn away, move out of sight, or at least stop staring. Yet Phineas found himself unable to lift the weight in his heart that anchored him in place. The pair of them stayed outside the door, watching as Mason led his employer away.

‘It’s so unfair.’ Rosanna’s voice cracked. ‘He was such a good man.’

‘He still is a good man,’ Phineas said. ‘Just because he’s forgotten, doesn’t mean we do. Goodness like his doesn’t end.’

Rosanna pulled at the ribbon beneath her chin. ‘Have you seen that before? A man forgetting himself?’

‘In the army. I saw men who became lost in their memories. To the fighting and such.’

‘Did any of them get better?’

Phineas closed his eyes against the silent agony of all those faces, the lost stares, the mouths that could not form words. He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember anyone ever recovering.’

Grief, shared and palpable, hung between them. Rosanna wrapped her hand around his arm again and leant in, forging a half embrace, whether for her own comfort or for his, he wasn’t sure. He absorbed her affection and squeezed her fingers in return. Mason and Albert disappeared around a corner at the top of the landing.

‘Enough of that, you two!’ Hamish caught the side of the doorframe and leant into the entry. ‘We’re all in here, waiting. You pair have made the meeting start late.’

Phineas coughed into his hand. Rosanna set her bonnet onto the side table. Hamish winked, then withdrew from sight again.

‘We should…’ Phineas gestured down the hall. ‘After you, Mrs Babbage.’

Iris, at least, seemed a little brighter than she had at their last meeting. She sat at the head of the table with a low stack of folders and papers before her. Hamish took the seat beside her as Phineas settled in his usual space. Rosanna paused. Her eyes flicked between her regular place opposite him and the vacant seat at his side.

He couldn’t say why his breath corkscrewed in his chest—she must be missing her family and her friend, and it was natural she’d long for the familiarity of the seat between Elise and her father. They were the stalwarts of her life, both past and future. And they weren’t married. Not really.

‘Miss Delaney is an apology.’ Iris gestured at the vacant seat normally occupied by the soprano. ‘She wouldn’t mind.’

Rosanna scooped her dress beneath her bottom and took her place beside him.

‘Before we start, we really need to speak about the unexpected events that have occurred since last meeting,’ Iris continued in her warm, yet business-like tone.

Hamish coughed and spluttered into his tea. ‘Unexpected? All the ways you could describe these two getting married, and you’re going with unexpect—’

‘All this time,’ Iris raised her voice to smother her husband’s, ‘we had no idea that the two of you were…’ She flicked a look at Lawrence, who crossed his arms and leant back in his chair with a scowl. Iris bent her head and tapped at the papers before her. ‘Possibly best not to dwell on the details. But sometimes, that’s how it goes.’ She flashed a conspiratorial look and a sly smile at Hamish, then slid a manilla folder tied with a bright red ribbon across the table. ‘A belated wedding gift. From all of us.’

Rosanna pulled the bow apart, flipped the folder open, and gasped. Phineas leant across. His fingers brushed her dress beneath the table, resting against the strength of her thigh. Listening. When she didn’t flinch, he let his hand settle.

Rosanna held up a folded map of the world. On a white card, pinned to the front and written in Iris’s smooth hand, was a simple message.

Together, a new dream .

‘You two haven’t had a proper honeymoon. Nor have Hamish and I, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go abroad. Anywhere in the world you’d like to visit, just name it. Elise will arrange everything.’

The world… What a lacklustre impression it had made on him. Scurvy and seasickness, iron bars and gallows. Daily life dictated by incompetent, pompous, pen-wielding administrators, by spare heirs too stupid for government and too cowardly for command who settled into bureaucracy with all the enthusiasm of a prison guard.

‘I cannot imagine where we might go.’ Rosanna spoke before his cynicism found form, her voice thick with the wonder of possibility. She twirled the ribbon around her finger, then uncurled it. ‘I’ve always dreamt of seeing Italy or Egypt or even beyond. Thank you. We are so excited by the prospect.’

‘We’d best get started.’ Iris flipped open the top folder. ‘Item Number 1. Profit and loss for the quarter…’

Rosanna rested her hand over his. And there he was, sandwiched between the small parts of her, the loving parts, the desirable parts. He flexed his fingers, considered withdrawing his hand, then didn’t. She tucked her fingertips into a gap and inched into his palm.

She isn’t yours. You can’t stay. She’ll do better when you cut her free.

Phineas slid his hand from her grasp, withdrew his pen from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and leant over the papers.

Rosanna cleared her throat and shuffled her notes with both hands.

The meeting followed the regular pattern. Phineas sifted through the words as Iris, and occasionally Elise, reported on the standard agenda. Profits. Losses. Opportunities. Failures. When the meeting ended, Phineas stood and swiped his notes from the table. He needed to get across town, to the bank. Taylor could only make excuses for him for so long.

Rosanna followed, but at the door, she turned back. ‘Excuse me, Iris.’ She moved to the table where Iris and Elise were gathering up their papers and the company books. ‘I’d like to learn more about ledgers and bookkeeping. I’ve seen the ones we keep at the hotel and for Spencer and Co., but I’d like to see something different that’s not related to travel. Do you have the latest report to shareholders for Abberton & Co.?’

‘It’s the Argonauts Trading Company now,’ Iris said, her tone sharp with bitterness. ‘They renamed the company last year. Erased Papa in less than a month.’

‘But you remained shareholders, didn’t you?’ Rosanna asked.

‘I sold our interests back to them before they launched to the public. I held them for a while, na?vely hoping that after I’d married, they might think differently and reinstate us on the board. But after a time, I couldn’t bear it.’ Iris tidied her papers and tapped them against the table to level their edges, then tucked them into a folder. ‘Watching reports come in, wondering what they were doing, and why… It became too much. If profits were up, was it because they were exploiting the workers? If they were down, were they making rash decisions? And Papa no longer knows what he created. Once they collected all the paperwork, I saw nothing but a short report again. Mr Sanders keeps the books to his own liking now.’

‘He doesn’t keep the books.’ Phineas sidled closer, trying to follow the thread that his wife had picked up. ‘They send them to Empire Savings and Loans. A senior clerk looks them over before they come into the office.’

‘That is unfortunate,’ Iris replied.

‘Why?’ Rosanna asked. ‘I thought such a tedious task would be the first thing one would want to be rid of.’

Iris shook her head. ‘Ignoring tedium is a certain way to disaster. That’s what Papa always said. I mean, really…’ She gestured at the perfectly maintained opulence of the dining room that had been converted into a board room. ‘Do you think we lacked the funds to pay a clerk to tally the books? Papa always insisted on knowing his own numbers. That’s how he taught me how to run a company. It’s the only way to understand what is happening—really happening—in a business. The ledgers are a company’s heartbeat. If the workers are being paid too little and become careless or if the warehouse is lax on security, you’ll see it in the columns. Even here, now, for Spencer and Co.’ Iris tugged a heavy volume from Elise’s arms, thumped it onto the table, and flipped the cover open. ‘Everyone loves chocolate. Why not a week with a Belgian chocolatier? Our first tour sold out within a week. Tour two almost as fast. Yet our third is selling poorly. No one has complained, so when the guests return to London, they feel happy. But when they have time to think, they are not recommending us. Is it the hotel? The guide? The chef? You must coax the truth from the ledgers, but it’s always there.’ Iris’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the columns. ‘The world is full of fraudsters, but the ledgers never lie.’

Rosanna held her skirt aloft in one hand as she half skipped down the stairs. Outside, on the pavement, Phineas made to cross back to Number 1 to fetch his umbrella. Rosanna tugged at his arm and pulled him back. ‘Where are you going? I thought you’d want to investigate.’

‘Investigate what? The chocolatier? The problem is obvious. It’s summer. The chocolate melts, then resets. It tastes horrible once they are home, so they don’t tell their friends out of embarrassment.’

‘Not the chocolate. The ledger. You said it was too perfect, didn’t you?’ Rosanna waited, her eyes bright with discovery. He shrugged. ‘It’s obvious . The ledger at your bank is a lie. There must be a duplicate. We need to find it. If we can find the original, we’ll learn everything.’