A Matter of Class Read Free

all.”
    Reggie spoke through lips stiff with apprehension. He could feel a prickle of perspiration trickling down his back beneath his shirt. He could actually hear his heartbeat.
    â€œYou are going to call upon Havercroft to offer neighborly sympathy?” he said. “Nothing else?”
    His father shook his head in exasperation at his son’s obtuseness.
    â€œFor a man who was so expensively educated, Reginald,” he said, “you can be awfully daft. Of course I am going to offer sympathy and the hand of friendship. What are neighbors for if they can’t stick together in times of trouble? But I’ll offer sympathy not just in the form of airy words, lad. Anyone can offer those. My sympathy will be more practical, as has always been my
way. I am going to show him a road out of his financial troubles and a way to lift his daughter out of ruin at the same time. A coal merchant’s son will be more desirable than a chimney sweep, I don’t doubt. I am going to offer him you .”
    He glared in triumph at his son.
    â€œAnd if you don’t like it, lad,” he added, “you have only yourself to blame. You are my flesh and blood and I have always doted on you, but right now I would have to say you deserve a haughty, ruined little chit for your own. And she deserves you.”
    Reggie sank heavily back into his seat.
    He had a strong conviction that nothing he might say would persuade his father to change his mind. He must try anyway. His father was clearly expecting it of him. He had resumed his seat behind the desk and was rubbing his hands together in anticipatory glee.
    Reggie swallowed, only to find that there was not one drop of saliva in his mouth.
    There was no telling yet how Havercroft would react to the proposition his father was clearly determined to make, but this match was already halfway made.
    If the other half did not fall into place, he might find himself permanently estranged from his father. And
Lady Annabelle Ashton might—no, would —find herself ruined beyond repair.
    Reggie licked his lips with a dry tongue and prepared to argue. For the moment, it was all he could do.

    L ady Annabelle Ashton, who was renowned for the rose-petal complexion that complemented her very blond hair so becomingly, was now of a complexion that matched her hair. She was as pale as a ghost.
    It did not matter that Thomas Till had been the perfect gentleman throughout their escapade, that she had not been alone with him for very long at all, and that for most of that time she had been inside the carriage, and he up on the box driving it. It did not matter that he had never touched more than her hand as he helped her in and out of the carriage and then into the inn where they had been imprudent enough to stop for refreshments as well as a change of horses. It did not matter that he was gone from her life now, never to be a part of it again—or that she did not even know where he was. It did not matter that from the moment she had
been apprehended, she had guarded the state of her heart with silent, stubborn dignity.
    None of it mattered as far as society was concerned. She was ruined anyway.
    For she and Thomas had committed an unpardonable indiscretion. They had been seen leaving the Bomford ball together—at least, she had been seen leaving in the middle of the ball with no chaperon except her father’s handsome new coachman. And they had been seen by half the inhabitants of Berkeley Square and half the servants at Havercroft House there when they had stopped for her to pick up her portmanteau from her bedchamber. Thomas had actually carried it downstairs for her and out the front doors. They had been seen by all the ostlers and grooms and indoor servants and a large number of travelers and other customers at the busy, fashionable inn where they had chosen to stop on their journey north.
    And, of course, though Thomas had only touched her hand at the inn while leading