Dangerous Games. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
Bellamy frowned dramatically. “You are a woman single and defenseless, and I know your departed husband would not wish you to continue without a partner at your side and what with these heinous accusations clinging to you like thorns to a rose. He would only have your best interests at heart. I had sincerely hoped that, given the appropriate amount of time, we would have more of an arrangement based on a burgeoning mutual respect and affection.”
He continued making his case, settling his bulk in his chair more comfortably, warming to the subject. “And as you well know, a man like myself having spent many years in India overseeing the welfare of the British East India Company, well, I simply didn’t have the time to turn my attentions to a wife and family. And you, of course, robbed of your husband at so tender an age…” He shook his head and turned to her earnestly, his delivery as smooth as an actor’s final rehearsal. “We discover ourselves at a juncture,” he pronounced grandly, “wherein we are fortunate to find salubrious companionship.”
She didn’t believe him, not for a moment. Although well into middle age, Bellamy could have had any one of the far more beautiful and malleable young girls on this year’s marriage mart. There was something distinctly unsettling about his interest in her and yet, given her present situation, the fact should account for very little. Mr. Isambard Kingdom Bellamy could well be the answer to her prayers. Except that she didn’t believe in prayer. Not anymore.
Out of the ether, she heard an echo of St. Martin’s words. What’s the difference, precisely, Mrs. Hampton, between Bellamy and me? Between what he wants of you and what I want of you? The question hovered intangibly in the air, but she knew she was right to be afraid of the answer.
“My dear, Mr…. I mean to say, King.” She began feeling as though she should say something, not quite knowing what she wanted and why she was fighting so hard to keep this man—potentially her salvation—at a distance. “Perhaps we are advancing too rapidly, given my period of mourning is hardly at end.”
Ironic that lately it was the specter of Charles she brandished whenever she felt too close to the precipice.
Bellamy raised his brows again. “We are both adults, are we not, Mrs. Hampton? Hardly in the first flush of youth and, therefore, it is entirely natural that we are eager to proceed with our lives.” He cleared his throat importantly the way he might address his shareholders, leaning toward her to drive home his point. “I had wanted to delay this moment until a more suitable venue presented itself, but since we’re hardly foolish young romantics, you and I, I shall come to the point.”
Lilly held her breath, working her reticule between nervous palms on her lap while he reached into the silk-lined jacket of his evening coat. A small, velvet box emerged in his large hands, workman’s hands, she thought irrationally, with their blunt fingers and broad palms. He opened the box.
It was a snake ring, set with diamonds and rubies the size of strawberries, the serpent symbol, she recognized, representing eternity. It was well known that Queen Victoria wore her own snake ring in recognition of her love for Albert. Each serpent, it was said, symbolized the bride and groom, intertwined and demonstrating the mutual communion of love.
Lilly swallowed and reluctantly looked up from the ring to meet Bellamy’s focused gaze, his eyes almost lost beneath his heavy brow. She had to say something, to respond. It was expected, at the very least. “It’s lovely. Wonderful,” she said, licking her dry lips, foolishly aware that she should add something more. Her mind had stopped working.
“Not the Koh-I-Noor precisely.” Bellamy barked a short laugh. He reached for her left hand and slowly peeled back the tight lace. His touch was strangely impersonal and her reaction just as cold. Perversely, the ring slid on her third finger perfectly.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated, mesmerized by the winking stones now nestled against her skin.
“Are you accepting my offer of marriage, my dearest Lilly?”
She knew she should. Unbidden, another face lingered in her mind’s eye. St. Martin. And his threats. His unreliable past and unreliable character. She didn’t dare think about what this man wanted with the architectural plans for the Crystal Palace. To steal the Koh-I-Noor? Blinking, she looked directly at Bellamy, the man who would move heaven and Earth to protect her. As his wife.
She clasped his hand in her cold one. “I will,” she said quietly as the air around them began to stir once again. Bellamy rose from his chair to bend down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, his cologne of bergamot and sandalwood enveloping her. So different from…She did not permit herself to finish the thought.
Efficient and purposeful, he launched onward, the argument won and the matter neatly settled in his mind. “A wedding breakfast, I thought, if that meets with your approval.” The words drifted away into a fog. Bellamy was speaking, already organizing their lives, and she clearly wasn’t following. Feeling momentarily lightheaded, she removed her hand from his.
“Whatever you prefer, King,” she said, her mind closing off the future. How could she be doing this? Her work was important as was her freedom, but to marry a man one didn’t love? The skin of her neck prickled. Of course, she thought she’d loved Charles and the results had been a catastrophe of historic proportion. Her stomach clenched at the memory. She would not risk again.
“I will leave the details to you. Something discreet,” Bellamy continued, settling back in his chair. “We will have my cook oversee perhaps a menu of stewed oysters, galantines, mayonnaise of fowl, cold game, pyramids…”
She nodded mutely, the deed done, unaware until a moment later that the major domo had reappeared, without the ices, from behind the heavy velvet drapes cordoning the private box. He looked stricken and leaned over to murmur something to Bellamy.
The older man, palms on his knees, galvanized to his feet. Buttoning his waistcoat, he asked, “Why, that’s impossible. Are you quite certain?” He frowned, watching the younger man back out of the box as quickly as he could but deferential to the last.
Something was wrong.
“Lilly—we must depart now.” Without waiting for her reply, he stepped aside and ushered her from her seat and forward through the theater box exit. A quick glance told her that the audience had not returned to their places, and suddenly she knew why. She looked down from their second-floor balcony, where a crush of silk, satin, and organza transformed the atrium into a riot of color. The hallway was crowded with panicked men and women endeavoring to leave the theater.
“They’ve barricaded the doors from the outside,” Bellamy said tersely, drawing her by the arm toward the central staircase. He buttoned his double-breasted suit coat. His mind was already elsewhere.
Cries and murmurs began wafting up toward them. “They? Who are they?” Trying to listen over the pounding of her pulse, she attempted to interpret what Bellamy was saying. Gone was the diffident gentleman of the previous moments, and in his place stood the major shareholder of the British East India Company. His eyes narrow slits and his lips razor thin under his fulsome mustache, he was considering his options. Aware that he was without his usual retinue of servants this evening, he appeared a man unaccustomed to being caught defenseless.
“The worst that can happen is that they set fire to the theater. It’s happened before, once in Lahore, but the bastards didn’t accomplish what they’d hoped.” His fingers dug into the skin of her shoulder blades as he looked haplessly left and right to the front and rear exits, both of which were obscured by the throngs of theatergoers. Every moment or so, a shriek rent the air and several women had succumbed to the vapors, wilted flowers in their pale pastel dresses littering the lofty expanse of the grand center stairwell.
“Set fire…who?” Lilly demanded once again. She fought the impulse to flee, knowing full well that there was no place to go. The press of the crowd and the din of raised voices pushed in on her, making her head swim.
“I know whose work this is,” Bellamy muttered to himself more than to her. “He is a favorite of Victoria.” The words came out as an insult. “I’m sure you’re familiar