Chapter 1
“But how can I?” Lady Agatha Whyte asked Henri Arnoux in a
hushed undertone, painfully aware of the other passengers
waiting in the lobby to board trains. “The Bigglesworths
are depending on me. They fear that unless they make some
sort of statement with the wedding ceremony and
postnuptial celebration, the Marquis of Cotton’s family
will never accept young Miss Bigglesworth as their equal,
and she will be forever marked as socially inferior to her
new in-laws.”
“But, how is this your problem, my dear, my darling, Lady
Agatha?” M. Arnoux begged in his wonderful French accent.
Lady Agatha stared at him helplessly, trying to think of
some way in which to phrase her unique position, and
subsequent power, in Society. It would be immodest to call
attention to her undoubted influence, but she had to make
him understand just how important her services could
be ... couldn’t they?
Perhaps she was deluding herself, she thought in alarm,
and what influence she had was not as extensive as she
herself had been led to believe.
“The Bigglesworths are convinced only the cachet of my
involvement will gain Miss Angela entrée into Society.
Indeed,” she said apologetically, “they say the only
reason Society will venture to so remote and provincial a
place as Little Bidewell is because I will have planned
the postmatrimonial celebration. As I did for your
daughter, sir.” She felt a blush rise in her cheeks. How
many years had it been sinceshe’d blushed?
“And a lovely celebration it was, too,” Henri Arnoux
assured her. “Yet, delightful as it was, it was not the
basis for my daughter’s future happiness. Unlike the
decision I am asking you to make, which most definitely
forms the basis for my future happiness and, dare I be so
bold, perhaps in some measure your own? That is, if you
can feel for me something of the regard I have for you,
dear Lady Agatha.” He secured her gloved hand and raised
it to his lips.
Lady Agatha’s reservations began to melt. He spoke so
chivalrously and his face was so earnest — and hadn’t it
been romantic, the way he’d followed her all the way here,
to the train station? Yet, how could she even consider
eloping to France with M. Arnoux instead of going to
Little Bidewell, the ticket for which she held in her hand?
If only she hadn’t agreed in the first place. But the
bride’s aunt, Miss Eglantyne Bigglesworth, was an old
classmate of Lady Agatha’s favorite cousin. And when dear
Helene had asked, it had seemed a fairy-tale sort of
endeavor: a simple country girl wedding a man who, as well
as being one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors, was the
scion of one of Society’s haughtiest families.
“I fear Miss Bigglesworth might feel my loss acutely, and
how would I forgive myself if — ”
“Ach! I never ‘eard such flummery,” a disgusted female
voice muttered from somewhere behind M. Arnoux. “I don’t
mean no offense, mum, but believe me, if this ‘ere chippy
has managed to land ‘erself a marquis, she ain’t needing
no ‘elp from you.”
Nonplussed, Lady Agatha leaned sideways to look around M.
Arnoux. She stared. The person who’d delivered this blunt
advice was not the Cockney girl Lady Agatha expected to
see, but a genteel and well-to-do-looking young lady
perched decorously on a bench.
She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was remarkably
handsome in an unconventional sort of way, with high,
chiseled cheekbones and a sharply angular jaw. Her warm,
brown eyes were deep-set and heavily lidded, the thin
brows above them straight and dark. Only her mouth failed
to be exactly ladylike, being too wide and full-lipped to
be precisely ... nice.
Lady Agatha’s gaze rose to the enormous and ornate picture
hat perched atop a mass of upswept auburn tresses. Sprays
of silk lilacs nestled amidst striped ribbons, while a
long purple dyed plume flirted rakishly with her temple.
An amazing confection.
And while her dress was unsuited for travel, it was the
absolute height of fashion and obviously expensive. From
her slender throat to her narrow wrists, delicate ivory-
colored lace overlay a snug sheath of rich periwinkle-hued
silk. The frock hugged the narrow span of her waist and
curved out to accommodate the swell of her hips before
falling free and sweeping the tops of kidskin half-boots.
One could purchase a gown like that for no less than
twenty-five guineas. Certainly no Cockney girl could
afford it.
Lady Agatha looked around quickly for another possible
source of the unsolicited advice. No one else was near.
The young lady smiled brightly. “Crikey, ducks. If a well-
’eeled-lookin’ bloke like this one ‘ere asked me to peel
off with ‘im, you wouldn’t see me for the dust!” She
grinned cheekily and winked. “Best look lively, dearie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen to her, Agatha,” Arnoux urged. “Come with me.”
“But — ” Agatha’s attention, momentarily diverted,
returned fully to M. Arnoux. “I have made a commitment. I
can’t simply leave this poor motherless girl and her
father...” She struggled to find the appropriate words.
“In the lurch?” the auburn-haired young woman supplied
helpfully and then shook her head in disgust. “Coo! That’s
a dodge if ever I ‘eard one. I’ve got your number. Taken
to overstating your own importance, you ‘ave. Made your
bit of talent out to be all the thing, and why? Because
you’re afraid if you don’t ‘ave something, you’ll be
nothing.”
Agatha remained mum. The young woman’s words too closely
echoed thoughts she’d more than once entertained.
“Well, that’s fine and good if you ain’t got nothing, but
you do. You’ve got ‘im.” The young lady jerked her thumb
at Henri Arnoux. M. Arnoux nodded eagerly. “Take my
advice. Don’t be a chump. Life grants you only a few
choice bits of plum, far too few to be spitting out those
what’s already in your mouth. If this ‘ere muck-a-muck
wants to set you up on easy street, you let ‘im. It’s now
or never, ducks.”
The amazing creature leaned forward, her dark eyes
sparkling, transformed from a fashionable young
aristocratic Miss into an irresistible vixen. “Besides
which, it don’t take a genius to see you’re in love
with ‘im and ‘e’s a fair goner where you’re concerned!”
Finally, something Agatha understood. She blushed fiercely.
Her unsolicited advisor was about to say something more,
but a shaggy little dog that had been rooting about the
refuse bin suddenly darted past her, the oily wrappings
from a sandwich in his maw. With a cry, the young woman
nabbed him by the scruff of the neck and set about
wresting his prize from him. “Fool mutt! Could be rat
poison on this!”
The mangy creature began to growl, the young woman shook
him in response, and —
— and M. Henri Arnoux kissed Lady Agatha Whyte. Right
there, in full view of everyone in the station!
Oh, my! It had been years, nay, over a decade since Agatha
had been kissed. Her knees began to buckle. Her eyelids
fluttered shut. Her reasons for refusing him suddenly
seemed pitifully inadequate and the advice of the young
woman like the wisdom of Solomon.
“Who would have thought when you took over the
arrangements for my daughter’s wedding that you would also
take over my heart?” Arnoux said, stepping back. “I love
you, Agatha. Marry me. Now. Today. Come with me to France.”
Dimly, Agatha heard her counselor sigh with pleasure.
“It’s as the young lady says, Agatha. You must decide now.
Now!” He spoke so manfully and his little black mustache
quivered so passionately and yet ... and yet...
“But M. Arnoux, what of Nell?” Agatha motioned vaguely
toward the area where her lady’s maid had discreetly taken
herself. “What about all my trunks and my things? Except
for some few personal things, they are already in Little —
”
Gently, he placed a finger over her lips. “Nell will come
with us, of course. As for your trunks, if there are
sentimental items amongst them, we will send for them
later. But for now, let me buy you things, Agatha. Let me
dress you, bedeck you with jewels, cosset you — ”
“Gorblimey, let ‘im!”
The young woman had the little canine in a stranglehold,
half the greasy wrapper in her hand, the other half
clamped in the dog’s maw. Both sets of brown eyes, canine
and human, gazed unblinkingly at Agatha.
“Really?” Agatha whispered, amazed she should seek advice
from a stranger and such a remarkable stranger at that.
“Without a doubt.”
The last of Agatha’s hesitation evaporated. Happiness
washed over her. Henri Arnoux cupped her face in his hands.
“Will you marry me, ma chere, mon coeur?”
“Without a doubt,” she answered.
He kissed her soundly and, wrapping an arm around her
waist, hastened her from the railroad station. So dazed
and happy was Lady Agatha that she didn’t even notice her
train ticket fall from her fingers and drift to the
ground, like confetti at a wedding.
But the young woman sitting on the bench did.
“Well, I’d say we’ve done our good deed for the day, eh,
Fagin?” Letty Potts said to the dog. All traces of the
Cockney accent had vanished. She watched the couple exit
the London train station, a plump woman scurrying in their
wake — doubtless the soon-to-be-expatriated Nell.
“Ain’t love grand?” she asked, reverting to the cheeky
Cockney accent. “Gor, sweet as treacle puddin’, it be.
Fair makes me teeth ache.”
But the twinkle in her eyes belied the sarcastic comment
and she dropped a fond kiss on Fagin’s nose before bending
to retrieve the fallen ticket. She peered at the name
inscribed on the destination line.
“Little Bidewell, Northumberland,” she read. “Coo, now
that is remote. Where in the world is it, do you suppose?
Not that it matters, eh, Fagin me lad?” Fagin’s tail
thumped against her side. “If a ticket to Little Bidewell
is what we have, Little Bidewell is where we’re going.”
Her smile slowly faded. With the amusing diversion
provided by the tall, thin redhead and her potbellied
French swain at an end, Letty’s thoughts turned to her own
problems. Nick would be looking for her soon. But he
wouldn’t have started yet. He’d still be sitting at
his “office” awaiting her arrival.
After all, in burning down the lodging house where she
lived, he’d destroyed not only her home, but everything in
the world she owned, except the gown she wore. It, too,
would have burned if Letty hadn’t donned her one truly
elegant dress in a futile attempt to impress the manager
of Goodwin’s Music Hall.
After two weeks of searching for employment she should
have realized it was useless. One way or the other, Nick
had found the means of “persuading” every theater manager
in London to blacklist her, in spite of the fact that she
was one of the musical theater’s rising stars. Or could
have been if she could only cut herself a break.
The critics would come round in time. They already loved
her voice; sooner or later she’d land a role that allowed
them to see that she could sing with this “emotional
depth” they all seemed to think she lacked, as well as
comedic lightheartedness. But that break would have to be
delayed some, it seemed.
She smiled bitterly. Nick must be congratulating himself
on finding a way, short of murder, that left her no
options but to come crawling back to him and be part of
the nasty confidence game he was plotting.
But she hadn’t crawled back. Instead, she’d come straight
from viewing the fire at her boardinghouse to St. Pancras
Station, where she’d counted out her few coins and asked
the ticket master how far the small bit would take her.
The answer had been disheartening: not even as far as
Chelsea. Not nearly far enough.
Only then had desperation begun to unravel the tight hold
she’d maintained over herself during the past weeks. She’d
sat down to think, fighting the unfamiliar wash of
helplessness. She was Letty Potts, by gad! Known for her
spit-in-your-eye spirit, quick wit, and ready smile.
Saucy, bold Letty Potts.
She wasn’t going back to Nick. She wouldn’t be part of his
latest confidence game. This wasn’t the usual bait-and-
switch where they hoodwinked some peer’s overbred,
overornamented slumming son. Nick’s newest enterprise was
a cruel bit of work involving filching middle-class
widows’ much-needed inheritances. She’d have no part of it.
Then, as Letty sat deep in thought, the Society folks had
appeared and literally dropped the answer to her woes at
her feet. She could go to this Little Bidewell and lie low
for a good while. Maybe she could even get a job doing a
spot of millinery work — supposing this town was big
enough to have a milliner. At the very least, she’d be out
of Nick Sparkle’s way.
Now, Letty was nobody’s pigeon. Benevolent guardian angels
were about as likely as snow in July. But she’d seen
enough to know that every now and again Fate cracks open a
door that only a fool refuses to slide through. She tucked
Fagin under her arm and rose to her feet, looking about
for the platform number printed on the ticket.
Letty Potts was no fool.
Chapter 2
If a minor character is introduced in the first act, you
can be sure he’ll be carrying a knife by the last.
“I won’t be bullied into granting my water rights to some
vile Whig!” Squire Arthur Himplerump thumped his cane
against the train platform’s floor.
Sir Elliot March placed his hand on the older man’s
shoulder, turning him. As soon as he had the elderly
curmudgeon away from the ladies, he intended to put an end
to this nonsense once and for all. The old reprobate had
seen him drive the Bigglesworth ladies up to the train
station and had immediately cut across the main street to
speak with Elliot. Or rather at Elliot.
That was the charm as well as the problem with living in
so small a market town as Little Bidewell. If one were “in
town,” eventually one was bound to come across everyone
else “in town” — whether at the greengrocer’s, Murrow’s
Tearoom, the dry goods store, the bank, or the church.
“It is, of course, your decision,” Elliot said, fixing
Himplerump’s florid face with a steady gaze. “But, Arthur,
even though you have a legal right to deny Burkett’s
easement request, the law was intended to protect your
rights, not punish a man for his political leanings.”
Himplerump’s jowls quivered with indignation.
“I know you are not a vindictive man, Arthur.” In
actuality, Elliot knew exactly the opposite, but was
willing to sacrifice the truth in the name of harmony. A
short distance off, the incoming train whistle blew.