Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women #3)(12)
“I’d wager on it,” Zachary said with grudging respect in his voice. Hattie adored him for it. Zach was a skilled banker at only four-and-twenty, but she loved him most for his fairness.
“Trading requires capital in the first place,” Flossie insisted. “Who gave him the funds?”
Beneath the table, Zach nudged Hattie’s skirt with his foot. A moment later, he placed something onto her lap. She peered down most discreetly. There was the roll Mama had denied her. Oh, she loved him the very most for his protectiveness. She stuffed the roll into her skirt pocket while her mother began enumerating the many misdeeds of Mr. Blackstone, which were chiefly his murky origins and his horrid treatment of a Lord Rutland.
“He has changed tactics, lately,” her father said. “Has sold and forgone a few debts. The chaps at the club are taking note.”
Benjamin inclined his head. “Is that why you invited him?”
“Well spotted.” Her father sounded pleased, as though Benny had said something astute.
“Why is this a reason?” Hattie asked, feeling sullen because she failed to see a connection.
“The reason,” her father said, “is that Blackstone might be no longer content with a position in the shadows. He might feel that he has exhausted its potential—which is the point when men become hungry for more.”
“Father thinks he might consider selling some shares that are of great interest to us,” Zach added. “We are keen to exploit the man’s potential desire for some social elevation.”
“Sometimes, a man’s own lips become a strong snare to him,” Adele remarked.
“We shall find out soon enough,” Papa said, and the purr in his tone raised the hair on Hattie’s nape. “Blackstone has sent word,” he continued. “And I invited him to the matinée next week. He has accepted.”
She gasped. It went unnoticed; everyone was preoccupied with their own surprise.
“Have you now?” came her mother’s cool voice. “For the matinée, you say?”
It is because of me. Ice-cold heat poured over her. Was he coming to tattle on her?
“Yes, the matinée,” her father said. “And I’m expecting each of you to act perfectly natural around him. The fish may be hooked, but has not yet been reeled in.”
Blackstone. Blackstone was to prowl around in the sanctity of their home.
“Mr. Greenfield, this is ridiculous,” said her mother. “Whether he has changed his ways or not, he isn’t Good Society. If he attends the matinée, I shall have to introduce him to respectable people, and how can I possibly do so when we know nothing about him?”
“My dear, where is your charity?”
“Well, it certainly ends where our reputation begins!”
“The matinée!” Across the table, Aunty’s head had jerked up as though she had napped with her eyes wide open until now. She picked up her ear trumpet, a bejeweled accessory, which she kept on her lap, raised it to her right ear, and turned to the foot of the table. “Adele, we must extend an invite for another guest: the young viscount Lord Skeffington.”
“No.” The word was out of Hattie’s mouth before she could stop it.
“No?” Aunty’s wizened face was bewildered. “Why, you were adamant that he join us.”
Mina, Benny, and Flossie were smirking, intrigued.
“Adamant, was she?” her father said. “Do we know the young man? Skeffington—Lord Clotworthy Skeffington?”
The walls of the dining room were not quite steady. “We must invite Lord Skeffington some other time, Mama,” she said, her voice tinny like cheap brass. “I shan’t be in attendance during the matinée.”
Her mother’s expression was at once alarmed. “Whyever not?”
“I … shall be indisposed.”
“How do you know? Are you not well?”
She wasn’t. And it would likely get worse.
Chapter 5
There seemed to be no suitable moment to speak to her friends after Harriet returned to Oxford on Sunday. On Monday, they all gathered in Lucie’s drawing room in Norham Gardens for the weekly Oxford suffrage chapter meeting. But Lucie greeted her at the door with her blond hair flying around her pointy face and sparks shooting from her eyes—apparently, the Manchester Guardian was in trouble for publishing their latest suffrage report. This had been expected, for few things were more outrageous than women loudly demanding to be treated as people before the law. Naturally, the entire meeting revolved around how the suffrage chapters across Britain should proceed amid the public outcry, and it seemed inappropriate to raise her hand and say: “I ran from my protection officer—again—and kissed Mr. Blackstone, and now he is coming to visit my parents’ house.”
She spent Tuesday in a panic over which painting to pick in place of Dull Persephone, because of course Mama had insisted she be present on Saturday since she had already told all her friends that Hattie would exhibit a piece. She finally settled on an old watercolor still life depicting fruit and vegetables in a wooden bowl, an exceedingly safe and boring choice.
On Wednesday, she had a headache and stayed in.
On Thursday, Lucie announced that Lord Ballentine had offered to take her to Italy because it would be more amusing to weather the storm raging around the suffrage report on a southerly beach, and quite unlike herself, Lucie had agreed. As Hattie counseled her on which hats and dresses to pack and where to best purchase fabrics in Naples, her confession kept surging up her throat like heartburn, but she couldn’t seem to form the words.