Ever His Bride by Linda Needham

rope.
    “Sir?” Tilson said, brushing a fall of crumbs
from his chin as he entered. “Sorry,” he mumbled around whatever
morsel was in his mouth.
    Tilson was a capable young man with a growing
family, the perfect amalgamation of pluck and anxiety to make for a
loyal clerk. He asked few questions and offered fewer opinions, but
his wife coddled the man like a babe, sending scones and jam with
him every morning, and having a box lunch delivered promptly every
half-noon. She treated her husband like a monied merchant, then
complained at the state of the family finances. He had often
overheard her heated whispers through the office door, bleating at
Tilson to beg a raise in pay.
    But Hunter had studied Tilson’s household
finances and had judged the salary he offered suitable for a
married man with two children. The woman still hadn’t forgiven him
for throwing open his office door on one such argument and
presenting these fiscal facts to her in black and white. Mrs.
Tilson had sped from the office in a veil of weeping, leaving
Tilson to decide between rushing after her and staying at his desk
during work hours. Tilson had wisely chosen to stay, but looked
much the worse the next morning for what must have been a long
night’s battle under the barrage of his wife’s ignorance of
business.
    Wife.
    He wondered what sort of mood his own was in
at the moment.
    “Sir?” Tilson said, following with a clearing
of his throat.
    “Ah, yes.” Hunter shrugged into his coat,
annoyed at the recent lapses in his thinking—lapses which had begun
late last night, and in the confounding presence of Miss Mayfield.
And in her absence, even sleep had been elusive. “I’ll be lunching
with Lord Spurling at Hammershaw’s, then attending a meeting of the
Committee at Lloyd’s. Should last the afternoon.”
    “Yessir.”
    “See that the bailiff delivers the notice of
foreclosure to Treadmore. He’s had his last warning. I want him out
by morning. And . . .”he began, remembering the marriage contract
on his desk. He’d promised a copy for Miss Mayfield, but the
meaning of the five clauses was still too unsettling for others
eyes to see. Especially the hen-pecked young Tilson.
    “Yessir?”
    “Nothing more.” Hunter folded the contract
and locked it in the safe. “I take it that Miss Mayf . . . my . . .
wife is waiting for me?”
    “As you required, sir.” Tilson lowered his
gaze for a moment, toeing his shoe along an arc of gold in the
carpet. “Though Mrs. Claybourne didn’t seem at all happy about it,
sir, if I may say so.”
    “No, Tilson, you may not say so. Ever.”
    “Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Tilson turned to
retreat, but stopped and brightened a degree. “Oh, and . . .
congratulations, sir, on your, uh . . . recent—”
    “Good day, Tilson.” Hunter lifted his hat
from the coat tree, brushed past the man, and let himself into the
mezzanine.
    The spectacle of marble and mahogany and
brilliant brass stirred joy and satisfaction in the center of him,
just as it always did—aromatic of beeswax polish and the fragrant
spices from the India traders, and ringing with the sounds of
pristine heels upon gleaming stone.
    This was his kingdom, his impregnable
fortress. The Claybourne Exchange. The more conservative and
elegant rival to the almighty Royal Exchange in its influence on
the country’s wealth, but far more capable of overcoming the
vagaries of the world’s markets than that ponderous behemoth across
the street. Kings, counts, and foreign governments crossed Cornhill
Street to trade in the Claybourne Exchange. None could doubt his
supremacy and none dared challenge him.
    Especially a chit like Miss Mayfield and her
felonious uncle. A year was a long time to wait for the
Drayhill-Starlington shares to finally become his, but he’d already
begun to redesign his plans to fit the new schedule. In time, he
would cause the delay to work to his advantage.
    Turning flotsam into cold, countable cash:
that was his