In the Money With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #2)

Chapter One

London, 1868

P rudence Cabot slipped her hands beneath her wool cape and pulled at her shirtwaist. Nerves were supposed to be a thing of the past, so why did she suddenly feel like her clothes didn’t fit? The drizzle had left a fine mist on her woolen mittens, and likely her hat as well. It reminded her of the spring showers back home, but then, there were usually clear skies after that. Not this endless gray. The rain in Minnesota had the decency to start and then stop. London’s was endless.

The door to the modest townhome swung open. A young man stood there, clearly a servant of some type. It still flustered her, which she hated. She’d grown up doing these sorts of duties for her family, and then after her marriage, they’d hired on people to care for the house. But there was something particular about the English servants that made her feel like she was being judged.

But who cared anymore? She was far from anyone whose opinion actually mattered.

“I’m here to see Mr. Moon.” Prudence didn’t bother trying to mask her American accent. She swallowed her vowels sounds and cooed the long double o ’s in the man’s name.

“And who shall I say is calling?” The young man kept his face aloof, but Prudence could see the interest flaring in his eyes. Young women were not supposed to call on single men.

However, Prudence was not a young woman, at least by her status. She was an American. She was a member of the Ladies’ Alpine Society, and the real reason she could get away with visiting a bachelor was that she was a widow. “A Mrs. Prudence Cabot, of the Ladies’ Alpine Society.”

The flare suitably extinguished, the footman invited her into the foyer to wait while he informed Mr. Moon. Prudence looked down at her boots, still slightly muddy, on the polished hardwood floor. How did Londoners clean their boots? She didn’t see any boot-rakers next to the door like she’d had growing up in Minnesota. And in New York, there were rugs everywhere.

In Spain, they hadn’t needed them, and when she was climbing with the Ladies’ Alpine Society in Scotland, no one worried about dirt. But she so wanted to make a good impression, and Mr. Moon and his mother had seemed so very proper when she’d met them before.

Suddenly, a housemaid came thundering down the steps. “Pardon me, Mrs. Cabot. Mrs. Moon invites you to the drawing room.” The maid cleared her throat and glanced at the door where the footman had disappeared. “First.”

Prudence tried not to raise her eyebrows and round her eyes, because she was tired of every Brit telling her she was too expressive. No doubt she did. But as soon as she nodded, the maid trotted down the steps to take her hat, cape, and gloves. She followed the maid up the stairs to Mrs. Moon’s drawing room, unsure of what to expect.

Mrs. Moon seemed frail, an impression taken wholly from Mr. Moon’s doting on her. She had sat during the one party they’d both attended. In truth, Prudence couldn’t think of why Mrs. Moon would want to see her, other than she might be bored.

The drawing room was like a step back in time. The fashions were outdated, with baroque-looking gold frames around every picture, and dark, bold colors everywhere she looked. Inside the room, Mrs. Moon sat tall in a crushed velvet chair next to the fire. It was April, a month that could hold either a promise of summer or the chill reminder of winter. The fire was roaring in any case.

“Daisy, tea.” Mrs. Moon was erect, giving directions to the maid, and dismissing her with a hand. “Sit, please.”

Prudence wasn’t sure if she should curtsy or bow her head, but she certainly didn’t get the impression that Mrs. Moon wasted time. So she did neither and sat in the chair opposite Mrs. Moon’s, the heat of the fire already uncomfortably warming her leg.

“You are Mrs. Prudence Cabot.” The old lady’s ice blue eyes bored into hers. Her hair was silver white, like an illustration of an ice fairy in a children’s picture book.

“I am.” Prudence did her best not to fidget. She felt all of twelve again, being assessed by the schoolmaster to determine if she would be allowed to continue on in the one-room school.

“A member of that ladies’ mountain group with Miss Ophelia Bridewell.”

“That’s correct.” Prudence maintained polite eye contact.

“You smile too much.”

Prudence blinked. “I wasn’t aware that I was smiling.” But now she couldn’t help but smile. Since crossing the Atlantic, her pleasant facial features were seen as a pathological deficiency.

Mrs. Moon sneered at her expression. “If you think to catch my Leo, you’ll have to be more subtle.”

Prudence blinked again. Catch Leo? Was that the cat? She looked on either side of the chair. “I’m sorry, but wouldn’t one of the maids be better suited?”

A flush swept up the woman’s face. “How—”

“Is the cat—?” Prudence asked, concerned that she’d offended Mrs. Moon.

“What cat?” Mrs. Moon barked.

And then realization dawned. “Oh.” She meant her son. Leo was Leopold Moon. Prudence did what came naturally to her—she tipped her head back and laughed. Which probably didn’t help any.

“Close your mouth! I can practically see your breakfast.”

But Prudence couldn’t stop laughing. This woman thought she was there to capture her son, when she was here on Alpine Society business. And there wasn’t a lost cat. All the nerves that had accosted her earlier washed away in the wave of her laughter. “What an utter delight. Thank you, Mrs. Moon.” Prudence wiped her eyes.

“I certainly didn’t—” Mrs. Moon sputtered, but Prudence had heard enough.

“—No need, Mrs. Moon.” Prudence held up her hand. “I’m not after Mr. Moon for his money or his company. I’m here on Alpine Society business.”

Mrs. Moon drew herself up, now offended on her son’s behalf that she wasn’t seeking his attentions. So Prudence thought she might have some fun. She was a widow after all.

“My Leo doesn’t have time for silly women, Mrs. Cabot.” Mrs. Moon scowled at her. “Nor will he fall for your act of disinterest.”

“Then my excuses won’t be of interest to you, so I’ll be perfectly blunt. I married extremely young, to a much older man.” Prudence might be mistaken, but she thought she detected sympathy in the woman’s eyes. “After nursing Mr. Cabot for the last five years, I’ve come to Europe to find a lover. I have no need of fortune, or a man’s name. But I would like to know what it would be like to find a completely inappropriate man to woo me. Mr. Moon doesn’t seem the wooing type.” Prudence leaned forward and patted the woman’s hand. “He’s quite safe with me.”

Mrs. Moon looked positively shocked, or at least tongue-tied, which was enough. Prudence stood, feeling much better about her visit.

“If you’ll excuse me, I should attend to my business and get on with my errands. Thank you ever so much for your company, Mrs. Moon. I quite enjoyed our conversation. Good day.” Prudence passed the maid with a tea tray entering the room just as she was leaving it. She informed the maid of her plans and asked the way to Mr. Moon’s study, but before she could leave to explore the house, the footman appeared to escort her.

She followed him back down the stairs, noting the fine polish on all the furniture. Even the muddy footprints she’d left in the foyer had already been mopped up. Behind the stairs was a hallway, which is where the footman opened up a door, eyes averted as she presented herself into the company of Leopold Moon.

In contrast to Mrs. Moon’s gilded drawing room, Mr. Moon’s study was utilitarian but comfortable. The wood floors were polished, but the rugs smaller, as if creating islands where furniture floated. The bookcases were enormous, stretching up to the ceiling, with a ladder to help fetch the loftier titles. He stood on the ground, fiddling with some kind of filing system that occupied the back wall, behind his desk. He switched out the labels, crushing one into a ball and crossing the room to throw it in the smoldering fire before acknowledging her presence.

“Mrs. Cabot,” Mr. Moon greeted her.

She was of half a mind to greet him as Leo, given his mother’s discussion, but she reined herself in. His steel-gray eyes did not invite frivolity. Indeed, the only thing they seemed to invite was a get the hell out , as the men in Minnesota might say. Well no, they wouldn’t say that because they were far too nice for such a sentiment. But the river captains weren’t.

“Mr. Moon, I do apologize for calling on you unannounced, but I was far too impatient to wait.”

He didn’t smile in acknowledgment or offer her a seat. He just stood there, waiting. The muscle in his square jaw pulsed.

“How do you do?” Prudence offered. She couldn’t very well ask after his mother’s health, as she had just seen the lady, but there had to be some kind of nicety to offer in conversation.

“Very well, thank you.” He stared at her expectantly.

Prudence noticed he did not return the question. She cleared her throat. On to business, then. “As you know, we are preparing ourselves for our Matterhorn ascent. We will not be attempting our climb this summer, but rather, next summer, as you are likely aware.”

“I am.”

Prudence felt rather on the back foot. He wasn’t giving her an inch. “As it is so close, Miss Bridewell has asked me to be the liaison with you in regard to fees to purchase equipment and travel expenses.”

“I have not heard this.” Mr. Moon turned on his heel and strode back to his desk where he sat down.

Prudence followed him, now standing in front of his desk. He’d sat down without offering her a seat. It made her feel... well, poorly thought of. She didn’t think she had a bad reputation, but clearly Mr. Moon didn’t see her favorably. She pulled out the letter from her purse. “I have here a note from Lord Rascomb. Both he and Miss Bridewell have signed it.”

Mr. Moon reached for it as Prudence thrust it across the desk, their hands colliding as the paper fell onto the blotter. She pulled back at the tingle that shivered up her arm. It was merely the surprising warmth of his hand, she was sure. Her eyes met his—was that from awkwardness? She suddenly felt far too aware of herself. And aware of him.

She looked at him anew. He was thin, yes, but his shoulders were broad under his coat. His hands ink-stained and calloused. His expression closed, secretive, suspicious.

Was this a cultural difference, or had something happened to this family that made them so very unwelcoming?

He broke their connection first, scanning the letter.

“It’s signed right there—” She leaned over to point to the signatures, but he waved her off.

She could almost feel the heat of his body coming off of him in waves. Like the summer sun shimmering across the hot stones of a quarry. How very peculiar a sensation. She’d never felt that before. There must have been some kind of static electricity in the room.

“It looks in order.” Mr. Moon glanced up at her. “But how do I know this is not a forgery?”

Was he accusing her of lying? Her cheeks went hot. There was one thing Prudence did not do, and that was lie. She might have her vices and her flaws, but she did not lie. “Because it is in his own hand. I assume you know what your client’s handwriting looks like?”

That ruffled his feathers. He drew back, puffing his chest, just as a bird might. “Madam. This is not the frontier. There are procedures.”

If this were the frontier, there would be a place for her to wipe her boots. She was nearly ready to cry an outraged How dare you or an I beg your pardon but resolved to be more level-headed than that. One thing she despised was when she was accused of being hysterical. She’d never been hysterical in her life. “Then proceed as you wish, so long as the job gets done.” Just to add emphasis, she smiled one of her jaw-cracking American grins.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I will contact Lord Rascomb personally to verify the veracity of this claim. Where might I find you?”

Oh, she was loath to tell him where she stayed, but fine. She jotted down her address—the Strawbridge Hotel, a small but luxurious inn she liked from her last sojourn in London—and returned the paper to him. “When might I expect your summons?”

“Summons?” he repeated, his voice very nearly mocking.

“Unless you want to be seen calling on a shocking American widow who might be forging the name of a Peer of the Realm.” She used an exaggerated voice to say the last part. Just to show him how American she really was, and how that hierarchy didn’t apply to her.

“Business is business,” he said.

She chewed her lip, wondering if that were really true. That much was true in her experience—in New York. She helped her husband with his ledgers for years, and no one questioned when she showed up in offices with them, explaining how she’d taken over secretarial duties for him after his apoplexy. Why? Because business was business. But here, in London, they had this strange class order that mattered more than money. Reputations were made generations before, and could be lost in a moment.

To Prudence, all the bowing and scraping seemed exhausting. She liked the clean clear negotiations she’d conducted. She liked the agreements brokered not because they had a certain last name, but because they had the land or the money, or the need. In Minnesota, more than one woman owned her own establishment outright, since there weren’t enough men to stick around and maintain the facilities needed. Though, such an establishment could be taken over at a moment’s notice by a man, if she weren’t careful.

“Business is business,” she echoed. This was silly. She was wasting far too much time on a man who clearly thought she was beneath him. “I’ll wait to hear from you then. Good day.” She twirled on her heel and left the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Was it a slam? Not really. Enough that her mother wouldn’t have yelled at her for it, but was it still too loud? Yes.

Did she regret slamming the door on Mr. Moon? Not one bit.

*

Leo lowered his forehead to his desk, letting the cool wood work against his hot skin. Bloody hell. He took a minute to breathe and calm the ache that had now spread to his entire lower body. He’d overheard the woman’s conversation with his mother. The bit about looking for a man to woo her, to seduce her, and then seeing the honey-haired American beauty walk through his study door robbed him of all words and decency.

Normally he had so much self-control that there was an excess. Should he have been eavesdropping on his mother? Of course not. But he had never heard a woman so explicitly say she was looking for a lover her own age. Who said such things aloud?

But it wasn’t the first time he’d had to fetch a visitor from his mother. The old woman made a habit of taking his callers, reducing them to tears or bringing them to blows, then foisting them off on him, saying the visitors had been the ones ill-behaved.

Leo would like to blame his mother for his trouble conducting himself this morning. And the sunlight, as well. For as Mrs. Cabot entered his room, the sun had clung to her, making her hair glimmer and shine in a way that dazzled. But could he blame the sun?

Perhaps he could blame it on Mrs. Cabot herself. For he’d never met a person—not a single one—who had laughed during a conversation with his mother. And for all his mother’s rudeness, Mrs. Cabot kept her patience, her candor, and her calm demeanor. I would like to know what it would be like to find a completely inappropriate man to woo me.

What did she deem inappropriate? He’d hurried back to his study and sent his footman up to guide Mrs. Cabot wherever she cared to go—whether to finish her business with him or flee the premises. He would have understood either.

But then she came in here, as he was working very hard on not thinking about the open invitation to become this woman’s lover. True, he’d not been invited specifically. In fact, she’d said that she didn’t think he was the wooing type . Was anyone?

Breathe. There were plenty of things to do that didn’t concern Mrs. Cabot and wooing. Or picturing her with a much older husband. He shuddered. How did young girls do it? He knew plenty of them did, for various reasons. Mostly obligation, it seemed.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts of Mrs. Cabot’s bedroom habits. He was relabeling his file cabinets. Part of his dealings as a private banker was secrecy. He was trained in law, but specialized in money. Why? Because money was what made the world turn. A man could have social power, generational power, but the days of those were waning. Look at the Americans, for God’s sake. It was money that brought the Confederacy to its knees. Starving soldiers couldn’t fight.

But Leo didn’t have the temperament for social power. He didn’t have the family for generational power. His knack for numbers and the training of the law meant he could move mountains with capital, and that was where his power lay.

Which was precisely what Lord Rascomb asked him to do. Of course, when he’d initially agreed to keep the books for this enterprise, he’d agreed to do so pro bono . He’d thought this would be like many ladies’ societies, where there might be a few fundraisers, then eventually the members would marry, the society would dissolve, the money might be donated to an orphanage or the women’s hospital, and they would enter a life of domesticity. It required a few meetings a year, entered him into the good graces of a respected aristocrat, and was well worth the trouble.

Leo never expected Miss Bridewell to actually climb a mountain. But then, after the planning and budgeting, they had. The budget had predictably gone over. With so many wealthy women, it was surprising that the excess wasn’t more. In his experience, the wealthy were prone to overspending because they weren’t accustomed to the harsh realities of having nothing left over. Women even more so, given they were not often privy to the exact income of their husbands.

Mr. Tristan Bridewell had warned Leo early on not to underestimate his sister. Or her plans. So Leo dutifully attended the meetings with his ledger to keep them on track. Would he deny that he was instantly attracted to the American widow? No, of course not. He had eyes, after all. Was he taken by her accent? Of course. Shocked by the toothsome grins that appeared for no reason? Naturally.

But did it make London seem less gray when she was around? Also, yes.

Leo lifted his head, aware that he may have the desk’s decorative edging imprinted on his forehead. The ache subsided. Work. He had three appointments this afternoon to prepare for, and his file system had grown again. This was a good thing, as it meant business was continually growing.

Still, he used his Morse code system, disguised as floral artistry, to label the drawers of ledgers and contracts. While yes, one could just open a drawer and find what one needed eventually, this would require time. And the files were not in alphabetical order, but in birthdate order of his clientele, notated in an alphanumeric cypher. The client birthdates were listed in a ledger in a hidden compartment of his locked desk drawer.

After he finished his new labels and slid them into place on the drawer fronts, he pulled the Ladies’ Alpine Society file. In it was the accounting ledger, pertinent documents, and most importantly, signatures. He compared them to the letter that Mrs. Cabot produced. They were identical. Still, he sent a note to Lord Rascomb, asking to call upon him at his earliest convenience.

One couldn’t be too careful when money was involved. Disguises and trickery were employed often enough to smooth over outright theft. If anything, Leo’s job was the security of his clients’ funds.

He looked out his window at the sturdy oak tree. He clocked his seasons by that tree. Examined its gnarled bark. Watched its feathery and furred inhabitants year-round. He celebrated when eggs hatched. Laughed when a squirrel lost its footing, congratulated the rodent when it held an acorn in its jaws.

Today he stared through it. Tonight he could relieve himself of this burden. Give himself permission to picture Prudence Cabot as she might receive a lover her own age. Think of that honey-blonde hair wound about his fingers, silky and soft. About her laughter dissolving into quick pleasure-filled huffs.

Breathe . The tightening below his waist eased as he mentally chanted prime numbers. He ought to get out his monthly to-do list and do extra work today. Otherwise, his afternoon clients would not appreciate his lack of focus. Sighing, he returned his attention to his desk, banishing all thoughts having to do with Americans and with widows.