“What? What do you mean, where you live?”
In lieu of an answer, he put his hand into the bookcase, stretching to reach the hidden recesses of the third shelf. He gave a swift pull on whatever it was he’d grasped, and Lily felt a change in the room, as if the wall had released a gust of breath. When Julian stepped back, the bookcase swung out from the wall, revealing a dark space. She lifted the candelabrum but could make out nothing within.
She blinked and tried again. This time she discerned a few faint curving glimmers in the dark. Perhaps … a row of brass hooks?
Lily swallowed hard. Her Bluebeard fancies returned with a bloody vengeance.
“It’s only a closet,” he said, stepping backward into the newly revealed space and extending her his hand.
“You live in a closet?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “There are more rooms on the other side.” His fingers crooked to beckon her. “You did say you wanted to share my life.”
So Lily accepted his hand, screwed up her courage, and followed him into the dark.
They went through the closet and emerged on the other side, into a modest, humbly furnished apartment. If two small rooms with a closet could be called an apartment. There was a narrow bed, made up for one. It displayed no more signs of actually being slept in than the grandiose Mount Mattress in the other room had done. But the rest of the space showed signs of life. On the desk blotter, a penknife and quill lay yearning for one another, separated by an expanse of blank paper. A discarded cravat was draped over the back of a chair. The grate had some ashes in it, and a scorched rag hanging on a hook by the kettle suggested someone rather inexpert at the task had recently been making tea.
A new light source flickered to life as Julian lit a lamp and placed it on the table. He went to the small mirror on the wall and began pushing his hair flat against his scalp.
“You live here?” she said.
He nodded, shrugging out of his coat.
“You. Live here.” She gestured first at him, then around the place, still not comprehending.
“Until we married, I did.”
“Why?”
“It’s convenient. My offices are just below.” He frowned at his waistcoat, seemingly displeased with it. But evidently he and waistcoat reached some kind of truce, for he let it alone. He reached for a new topcoat, this one from the hidden closet.
“Your … your offices?” She finger-spelled the word to make sure she’d understood him correctly.
“Yes.”
He donned spectacles and a brown felt beaver, and the transformation was complete. Here was her theater escort—the boring, overworked clerk. Mr. James Bell.
“Come downstairs. I’ll show you.”
This time, he carried the lamp. Lily followed him out of the small apartment and down the narrowest staircase yet. This one folded in half on itself on its journey downward. It ended at a nondescript brown door.
Julian seized the handle, paused for a second, and then thrust it open wide to reveal …
Offices. He’d been true to his word.
Though it was growing dark, it was only late afternoon. People were still at work, in shops and factories all over the city.
This establishment was no exception. From two orderly rows of desks, two orderly rows of clerks jumped up, snapping to attention. They made a chorus of greetings, which Julian acknowledged with a nod. The clerks all retook their seats, but they kept stealing glances at Lily. They peered at her as though they’d never seen a woman before. Or at least, not one on their employer’s arm. Comforting, that.
A man in a brown suit hurried toward them. Lily thought he looked vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Bell.” He bowed. “Sir, how very good to see you. We weren’t expecting you in today.” The man’s gaze slid to Lily. He was visibly squirming with curiosity, but his employer did not indulge it.
“Enough, Thatcher. I’ll call if you’re needed.” Lily’s husband—she wasn’t even certain what to call him anymore—steered her toward a partitioned office at the back of the room. She barely had a chance to read the lettering on the door’s frosted window: Mr. J. Bell. Manager, Aegis Investments.
Once inside, he directed her to sit at the large desk. From here, a large plate window gave her a view of the two rows of clerks seated at their desks. She looked out at them. In unison, they jerked their gazes away and dipped their quills.
Before her, her husband worked to clear away a haystack of papers and envelopes.
“Sorry,” he said, sifting through the papers and piling them in a neat stack. “It’s not usually so disorderly. I haven’t been in much of late, and I’m behind on my correspondence.”
“What is this place?”
“It’s … mine.” His chest rose and fell. “You’re now the only soul alive who knows that. Except Faraday, apparently, and a very discreet solicitor. Thatcher and the clerks—they all believe I’m the manager of Aegis Investments, reporting to wealthy investors. But in truth, the investments are all mine. I own it all.”
“You own what, precisely?”
He began pulling ledgers from the wall and plunking them on the desk before her. “Various properties,” he said, plunking down a black leather-bound volume, “including most of the immediate neighborhood. Several textile mills.” A green ledger joined the first. “Miscellaneous investments.” This one was bound in a reddish brown.
“Have a look at them,” he said. “Better yet, here—” He yanked a folio from a high shelf and opened it, spreading the contents on the blotter before her. “This is last year’s report. Income and expenses.” He pulled one sheet apart from the rest. “Total assets are listed here.”
Lily didn’t look at it. She looked to him, agape.
He took a seat in a straight-backed chair across from her. “Mainly, I produce and sell cloth, wholesale. That’s the reason behind Julian Bellamy’s striking style. I’ve been setting the fashion trends to benefit my trade.” He gestured toward the papers and ledgers. “Go on, have a look.”
Lily couldn’t deny that she was curious. So she did as he suggested. First, she flipped through each of the ledgers. Of all people, she could appreciate a well-kept ledger, and these were meticulous. In every case, the income eclipsed the expenditures. In the Miscellany volume, she found several pages of charitable donations in astounding sums. Then she turned to last year’s summary, where she had to peer at the “total assets” portion for a solid minute, performing calculations in her mind to check the arithmetic before she could completely believe the final balance was correct.
He was worth a fortune. And not a small one. He was worth far more than Leo had been, if one discounted the entailed property that came with the marquessate.
“How did you amass all this?” she asked, lifting her head.
“Investments. I did have some seed money. A thousand guineas.”
“Where did you get a thousand guineas?”
“Blackmail.”
“Blackmail?” He said the word so baldly, with no equivocation.
“Yes. You recall the fixed horse race. I bled the ten conspirators for a hundred guineas each. A small fraction of their ill-gotten gains.”
“And from that, you did all this?” She gestured around at the ledgers.
He gave a modest nod.
Lily marveled at him. To think of all he’d accomplished, entirely on his own. A boy raised in the gutters, orphaned in his youth. All this, and yet he didn’t flash his wealth around for amusement’s sake, and certainly not for pride’s. No one had any idea. She couldn’t even bring herself to be angry with him for the deceit. She was too overwhelmingly proud. If only his mother could see her son now.
She dabbed away a tear. “I always knew you were a remarkable man, and I’ve long suspected there was more to you than the world supposed. But I’m ashamed to say even I could not have imagined this. Julian, I—” She broke off, biting her lip. “Do I still call you Julian?”
“I don’t know.” He shifted in his chair, looking serious. “I have been living two lives, under two different names. Neither one is precisely my own. My mother was Mary Bell, but you already know I’m uncertain of my Christian name.”
“Surely you could find out, if you went to the church.”
“I’m not certain I want to know.” A smile tugged at his lips. “What if it’s something dreadful, like Jedediah or Jehosephat?”
She cringed. “I see your point there.”
“My solicitor tells me my legal name can be whichever I choose. All I need to do is settle on one identity, and then transfer everything to that name.”
“Which name?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
“I think you should choose James Bell,” she said. “Don’t you? It honors your mother.” Although secretly, she would find it difficult to call him anything other than Julian. And she hated to admit, Lady Lily Bell sounded unbearably precious.
“That may be. However, I married you as Julian Bellamy. Changing to Bell now … I worry it could invalidate our union.”
Secretly relieved, she said, “Well, we can’t have that.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” His brow creased. “You wouldn’t prefer it that way?”
What? She sat back, stunned. How could he even say such a thing?
“Come now, Lily. A noblewoman of royal lineage, married to a man in trade? You know as well as I, it just isn’t done. When I proposed to you, I planned to sell it all. I’ve been making arrangements to do just that, but it takes time.”
“Really? You meant to sell off everything?” The magnitude of the sacrifice pained Lily, even in the abstract. Not the wealth or possessions, but just the sheer accomplishment represented by the documents on this desk. This was his life’s work.
“You deserved a gentleman. So I meant to play at being one for the remainder of my days. But I’ve come to realize—and I think you’ve come to realize—living like that, I will always feel something of a fraud. If I’m to prove myself worthy of you, it must be on my own terms.” His gaze made a slow circuit of the busy office, then came home to hers. “I’m good at this, Lily. It’s what I’m meant to do. I don’t want to give it up.”
She nodded, understanding.
“So it’s come to this. Your choice. Part ways with James Bell, or stay married to Julian Bellamy.” He held her response at bay with an open palm. “Understand, you’ll be a tradesman’s wife. Think about what that means, Lily. Think long and hard. Your social standing and connections will suffer. Our children will not be accepted to the same schools and circles of friends you and Leo enjoyed. People may be cruel. You’ll be spitting in the face of social convention.”
She stared at him.
“That is, if you were the sort to spit.” He shifted uneasily. “I know you’re not.”
“Social convention,” she said musingly. “The same social convention that left you a penniless orphan? The same social convention that made my brother the target of violence and scorn? I’m not keen on social convention of late. If I were the sort to spit, that should be my first target.”
She touched a hand to the stack of papers and folios. “I adore ledgers, Julian. I love sitting in the pit at Drury Lane. And I wasn’t joking that evening. I find spectacles wildly attractive.”
Smiling, she reached across to trace the rim of one lens with her fingertip, then follow the earpiece back to where it plunged into his thick, dark hair. Tenderly, she framed his cheek with her palm.
“I think I was born to be a tradesman’s wife. Or perhaps I was just born to be yours.”