Page 74 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“Naturally. The comeuppance would not be complete without you.”

Her heart softened in its outrage at his complete and utter confidence that he would gain the upper hand, at least in business dealings.

Was this the moment to tell him that her heart might be softening in other ways?

How much softness might he desire of her? And for how long?

“I say, Rowden, I’m accustomed to seeing you in the cartoons, but now it appears this artist is out for your family as well.” Mr. Keeling, Rowden’s friend, approached them, touching the brim of his hat to Sophronia in acknowledgement. “Does this artist have a grudge against your personally, I wonder, or just find your life a congenial subject for a lampoon?”

Rowden’s gaze hardened, though his expression was bland as he turned to his friend. “Keeling, are you touched in the head? There haven’t been cartoons about me for days. Can’t fathom why.”

“It’s Giles this time, haven’t you seen?” Keeling nodded toward the window of the printer’s shop where the latest broadsides were for sale and satiric prints papered the glass window.

Sophronia marched forward, elbowing a gentleman aside for a better view. The cartoon portrayed Giles sprawled in an armchair, hair tousled, cravat unraveling and shirt points drooping, a fatuous expression on his face as he sucked from a long opium pipe. The smoke from the bowl wreathed his head, sprouting devilish fingers reaching in for him, while Giles was oblivious to all around him.

To the side of the print stood a figure that must be Lily, in a prim round gown and the pert hat she’d worn on one of their outings earlier that week. She stood with her face buried in her hands, and the speech bubble expressed the lament: “Oh, I have a rival for my love, and he shall never want me more than that pipe, never!” A legend at the bottom held the title “Desolation of a Damsel,” but no name or initials to give the artist their due.

Sophronia was inside the shop before she had fully comprehended the outrage. The young man behind the counter, Alexander, widened his eyes as he saw her.

“Your father, if you please.”

Zebedee Meggett came at the summons, but his expression was a shade less cordial than it had been on the occasion of their prior meeting. “Oh no, miss or madam, oh no, I say! You cost me a pretty penny buying those plates of Mr. Rowden, and nothing sells nearly as well. I won’t let you have Mr. Giles, I won’t.”

“Just that plate,” Sophronia argued. “On the grounds that he is about to be married, and that illustration makes his future bride look pitiable and foolish.”

Meggett wavered, the ink-stained finger he’d been waving at her still aloft. “Married, you say?”

“And you should not wish to injure his bride to be, as she will be wife to a baron’s heir, and in due time wife of a baron someday, with a great deal of influence.”

The thought struck Sophronia with new force. She had focused only on Lily’s happiness and on Giles as a secure match with prospects. But in the fullness of time and God’s will, Giles would succeed to his father’s titles and estates, and Lily would rise along with him.

She slanted a look at Rowden, who was gazing around the shop with curiosity, his grin widening whenever he recognized an acquaintance in a satiric print or a particularly apt jab at a public figure. Rowden had chosen Mary Kemp with Giles’s future status in mind, she now realized. Not only did Miss Kemp have the manners and address to conduct herself in the highest circles, but her impeccable bloodline came with connections and influence that might aid Giles when he became a peer of the realm and took his seat in the House of Lords.

Well, Lily had won his heart, and though she was the daughter of a mere colonel, she had address and manners in spades. She would learn whatever she needed to know, and love would bear them through the rest.

That thought landed with a slap, making Sophronia’s other thoughts scatter. A marriage could endure many challenges if there were steadfast love. She believed this for other people, but she had not quite made the application to herself.

To herself and Rowden, that was.

What if she could simply trust that love would bear them through all her fears and practicalities? And that if the most severe challenge of all fell upon them—losing him—she would bear through with dignity as women had done since the dawn of time.

She had lost him once already and survived, if barely. She would not call it life, what she lived without Rowden, not now that she knew again the delights of being with him. But she had survived.

She looked down at the countertop, where her clenched fist still wrapped around the carved lion. Unbidden, she saw again her father sitting in the parlor of Foxleigh, his shoulders hunched and shaking with sobs while he clutched to his chest the embroidery her mother had left on her hoop, and which he had not been able for years to see removed from the room, nor could he bear for Sophronia or Aunt Edmons to finish it. His wound of loss had simply never healed but festered, and no doubt it was the canker that ate now at his soul, leaving him ever in ill health.

That was what great love did to one, she reminded herself. Became their all-in-all when that person was with them, and left them a destroyed shell when death thieved that person away.

“Married, you say.” Meggett rubbed his hands together. “That will make a splendid picture. Weddings sell nearly as well as hangings and political scandals. We’re earning a fortune off the Maidstone trials. Alexander,” he barked, “find our artist and tell her—tell them of the new subject.”

“Yes, Father.” Alexander darted into the back of the shop.

“Mr. Meggett! I wish you will not make Lord Denford’s heir a figure of fun,” Sophronia said.

“Oh, we’ll depict him most nobly. Miss—madam—are there any prints I might sell you today? Any books that might interest you? Or perhaps this new publication, the Ladies Monthly Magazine. Written by ladies of established reputation in the highest literary circles.”

“She will take the prints of Giles with the pipe.” Rowden tapped the knob of his walking stick against the wooden counter.

“Indeed yes, sir.” Meggett smiled broadly. “How many?”