Once inside the richly appointed bedchamber, he locked the door behind him. And then he waited. When a few minutes had passed and he was certain no one was listening, he followed the golden path of the carpet’s Greek maze border, skirting the four-poster bed with its crimson velvet hangings, until he stood before a bookcase in the room’s farthest corner. He pulled a lever in the hidden recesses of the third shelf, then stepped back to let the panel swing out on its hinges.
On the other side of the false wall was a narrow, humble closet that belonged to the mercantile building in the rear.
The small space held a shelf of starched white shirts and cravats, a few folded pairs of trousers in neutral shades. Plain brass hooks supported a row of four coats: dun, gray, black, and dark blue. Two hats.
Tossing his banyan aside, he stepped through the hidden passageway and closed the panel behind him. His night as Julian Bellamy was over.
He was very late for his day as James Bell.
Chapter Four
Mr. James Bell did not employ a valet. Nor a cook, nor a butler, nor indeed a single footman. Just a charwoman to come in and sweep twice a week. She was an illiterate and perpetually harried woman, unlikely to snoop.
Mr. Bell was, however, a generous employer. He compensated said charwoman thrice the normal amount, and he treated his clerks well. Paid wages promptly, with annual rises in pay and bonuses at Christmas. Well-paid employees did not question or complain.
Mr. Bell lived in rooms above his business offices, and he kept eccentric hours. Though his dedication was above question, the clerks never knew at what time he might appear belowstairs. He’d let spread a vague rumor that he suffered from recurrent bouts of headache. Some mornings, they found him already behind his desk at eight, cravat-deep in accounting ledgers. Other days, like today, he didn’t appear until well after noon. This inconsistent schedule kept his clerks on constant alert.
Mr. Bell dressed in unremarkable though well-tailored attire. He parted his black hair severely and combed it with pomade until it lay flat against his scalp. “Fastidious,” some might have described him. The less charitable might have said, “Dull as toast.” Rarely was he observed going out-of-doors without a hat, and he wore spectacles at all times.
There was only plain glass in the lenses, of course. Julian didn’t wear them to see. He wore them so he would not be seen.
And the disguise had worked quite well for several years.
It was midafternoon when he came down the back stairs today and entered the offices from the rear. As usual, he found his eight clerks hunched over two neat rows of desks that ran the length of the room. They all hastened to their feet with a chorus of “Good day, Mr. Bell.”
He nodded in reply.
The errand boys threw him guilty looks from a corner, where they no doubt had been dicing until a few moments ago. Julian decided to overlook the infraction. For now. He’d provide tasks enough to keep them hopping the rest of the day.
“As you were,” he said, retreating into his office—a partitioned section at the back with a glass window for supervisory purposes and drapes he could pull when privacy was desired. The frosted pane set in the door was lettered in gilt: “J. Bell. Manager, Aegis Investments.”
So far as his employees understood, Mr. Bell managed the interests of several wealthy investors. These unnamed investors—aristocrats, it was presumed, who could not be seen sullying their hands with trade—had pooled their money toward various business endeavors: in particular, several wool and linen mills to the North, and commercial real estate holdings in most of England’s larger cities. Mr. Bell oversaw the operations and management of these investments with the assistance of his clerks and a personal secretary, and he reported to his superiors regularly.
In reality, Mr. Bell had no superiors, and there was but one investor: Julian himself. He not only owned the mills in the North and the buildings in Bristol, Oxford, York, and beyond—but he in fact owned most of this very block, including the mercantile building that housed the Aegis Investments offices and the residential row to the rear. He was, by any standard, a man of great wealth. And key to all of this was maintaining his status as a man of many secrets.
If certain powerful men learned just how he’d amassed this fortune and just what he intended to do with it …
Well, he already knew the completion of that thought, didn’t he? Those certain men would arrange to have him waylaid in a darkened alleyway, pummeled to death.
He shuddered, thinking of Leo and his broken face.
His secretary, Thatcher, followed him into his private office, waving a clutch of papers. “The morning post, sir.”
“What’s in it?”
Thatcher riffled through the papers. “A report on the fluctuating price of indigo. A letter from the Benevolence Society for the Deserving Poor, requesting the renewal of the investors’ generous subscription. The contract for lease of the Dover property. Your express from the mills.”
“Give it here. The express, I mean. Leave the rest on the blotter, and you may go.”
Thatcher did as asked, as always.
Julian broke the wax seal and quickly scanned the letter in his hands. He now demanded twice-weekly expresses from the mills, and he always read them first thing. Worker morale remained high, his agent reported, and production was steady.
Good, all good. After the flare of labor riots earlier that year, he’d been keeping close watch on his mills. Outside efforts to mobilize dissent amongst his workers had so far met with little success. And little wonder—his laborers were the best paid of any textile workers in the region, and he took pains to make them feel secure in their posts. He’d even gone so far as to visit each mill personally and assure the workers no jobs would be lost to the new machines.
It wasn’t such a radical formula to Julian: Invest a measure of good will in the workers, reap benefits in the form of steady production. He’d never understand why the other mill owners didn’t grasp the concept. But then, their loss was his gain. His mills’ reputation for consistent, high-quality production was the source of many lucrative military contracts. Over the course of the past decade, more than half the enlisted men in the British Army had marched into the fray wearing Aegis wool on their backs. When they fell in battle, their wounds were bound with Aegis flannel.
Now, with the wars over, England’s economy was depressed. But the wealthy still had coin to spend. Mr. James Bell made certain the country’s finest mercers, drapers, and upholsterers all carried Aegis cloth in their shops. Meanwhile, Julian Bellamy set the fashions, assuring those shops of a steady trade.
He called Thatcher back in. “Here,” he said, hastily scrawling his signature on the lease before passing it across the desk. “This is done. Tell the Benevolence Society we’ll renew the subscription, and direct the warehouse to send over any surplus bolts of cloth for their use.”
“Yes, sir. And if you please, sir, the tailors are here.”
“Send them in.”
Schwartz and Cobb filed into the office, laden with patterns and samples. With a curt nod of greeting, Julian waved the latest sketches to his desk. He had not lied to Lily on this count, at least. He was late for this meeting with his tailors. Unconscionably late. The drawings and samples before him represented the culmination of a year’s preparation and strategy, and his men had teetered on the brink of action for months. The plans wanted only his final approval before a production schedule could be set. But something always held him back. The patterns weren’t right, or the dyes were inferior, or the price of wool too dear … Again and again, he’d found himself delaying, for one reason and another.
Strike that.
He’d been delaying for one reason. No other.
Lily.
Her sweet rosemary scent bloomed in his memory, and his thoughts tangled in the lush fringe of her eyelashes. He forced down the tide of emotion in his chest. Not here. He could not allow himself to think of her here. Whatever nocturnal exploits Julian Bellamy enjoyed, Mr. James Bell did not have time for women.
And neither man could afford to contemplate love.
“I told a dreadful lie today,” Lily said, even before the greetings were out. Standing in the entry of the Duke of Morland’s drawing room, she hugged her hostess tightly and confessed, “Several lies, as a matter of fact.”
Amelia pulled back from the embrace. “Really? That seems unlike you.”
“It is.” With a fretful shake of her head, Lily squeezed her friend’s arm in supplication. “I’m here to beg your assistance, Amelia. I have to make those lies the truth. At least some of them.”
“Well, I am all anticipation to hear what this is about. It’s not often I’m recruited into clandestine schemes, you know. But please, do sit down first and take some tea.”
Lily’s racing pulse insisted there wasn’t a moment to waste. But she would win no favors by being rude. And today she needed to ask a very big favor indeed.
Amelia steered her toward a pair of French armchairs situated beneath a tall, lace-draped window. A small table between the two chairs held a tea service and refreshments. In accordance with Amelia’s talent for homemaking, all was the picture of refinement and good taste. When Lily sat down, she found the striped silk upholstery to be so smooth and taut, it took some effort to keep from sliding off the seat.
“What’s brought you to Town?” Lily asked, as her friend poured tea. “I thought you and the duke would remain in Cambridgeshire until the babe is born.”
Amelia nipped a lump of sugar into the teacup and stirred. “Oh, it was Spencer’s wish to return to London. He wanted us closer to specialists and physicians when my time draws near.” She shrugged, extending the cup and saucer to Lily. “Never mind that the man owns England’s largest stud farm and has attended hundreds of equine births. When it comes to his own child, he’s suddenly a bundle of nerves.”
“It only proves how much he adores you.”
Despite the duke’s terse, autocratic nature, Lily had suspected from the first he’d make Amelia a surprisingly tender husband. It would seem she’d been right.
“I am no specialist,” Lily said. “But to my untrained eye, you look the picture of robust health. Not only health, but true contentment.”
From her radiant complexion to her gently rounded belly, Amelia embodied domestic bliss. And despite herself, Lily knew a brief moment of envy. Perhaps this was the real reason she’d let her friendships with women fall by the wayside over the years. One by one, they’d all become wives, then mothers. Much as she’d loved Leo and valued her financial independence, Lily found it hard sometimes, not to want what they had, too.
“I do feel well,” Amelia replied modestly, lifting her own teacup. “No sickness anymore. I’m more fortunate than many women in my condition.”
They each sipped their tea.
After they lowered their cups, Lily looked to her friend expectantly, waiting for her cue to begin. A long moment passed. She threw an anxious glance toward the clock, growing increasingly concerned with every swing of the pendulum.
Lily cleared her throat. “Well.”
Amelia raised her eyebrows and gave a benign smile. “Yes?”
Had she forgotten Lily’s confession, or was she simply playing coy? Just when Lily was beginning to wonder whether she needed to start at the beginning again, recognition snapped in Amelia’s eyes.
“Oh, yes!” she said, setting down her teacup to frantically churn the air with her hands. “You told a lie, or several of them, and you desperately need my help.” She slid forward on her chair. “I’m so sorry dear, it’s an effect of breeding, it seems. Strong fingernails, weak memory. Please, tell me what I can do.”
Relieved, Lily said, “It’s Julian. He’s still obsessed with finding Leo’s killers, to the exclusion of all else. He wanders the streets at all hours of the night. He scarcely eats or sleeps. He’s neglected all his friendships, declines every invitation. He’s on course to join Leo in the grave, and I don’t know what to do. Perhaps it’s naïve, but I can’t help thinking … if only I could nudge him out into society, you know? Then perhaps he would return to his old, carefree self.”