To Tempt a Saint Read Free

the near corner a lacquered oriental screen depicted an eastern emperor and his fawning court, concealing those necessities gentlemen could avail themselves of in a way not permitted to ladies.
    Directly in Cleo’s path a small tea table had been set with a steaming silver pot, a pile of biscuits, and pale white cups and saucers for two. “My compliments, Meese. You’ve outdone yourself.”
    The tea set provoked a worried crease on Meese’s narrow brow. “You can’t wait here, missy.” Meese wrung his hands. “Mr. E won’t like this, won’t like it at all. No unaccompanied women in Mr. E’s bank.”
    Cleo stripped off her gloves. “Evershot’s Bank has had the keeping of a substantial sum of my money for nearly four years. I think I am well within my rights to expect Mr. Evershot to keep an appointment with me.” She was early, but she would not let Meese tuck her out of sight in some closet.
    Meese shook a finger at her. “You’re a bold baggage, miss, but you’ll not get a farthing more out of Mr. E.” With a parting glare, he scuttled out.
    Cleo removed her bonnet. Meese was probably right, but on the whole, she thought the tea was a good sign. Evershot had never provided tea before. He was her best hope. Stingy he might be, and set in his opinion that women and lunatics could not manage money, but of her two trustees he was the honest one. A delicate thread of steam carried the scent of rich black tea her way. The biscuits added a faint buttery note, and her stomach rumbled appreciatively.
    She settled herself to wait, draping her cloak over her knees to conceal the torn flounce. Sadly, the arrangement put the tea out of reach, and she felt ridiculous, as if she were poking her head out of a shabby tent. The fine silk frogging on her cloak, all the rage four years earlier, was its last pretension to fashion. She lifted the edge to inspect the torn flounce.
    It was worse than she thought. A late summer rain had made a mire of the lanes. Muddy straw clung to her drooping hem, and her half boots would disgrace the lowliest private. She had saved a shilling six riding in Farmer Davies’s cart only to look as if she were collecting for a Bonfire Night effigy.
    The privacy of the men’s corner beckoned. If she were quick, she could repair her skirts and meet Evershot with some dignity. With a burst of resolution, she tore her glance from the tea and ducked behind the screen.
    The private area was as rich as the rest of the president’s office, with a tall cheval glass, a leather-covered bench, and a handsome commode. Cleo ignored the glass, knowing what she would see. A torn flounce was the least of her problems. She was thin and brown and looked ready for the parish workhouse, not the ballrooms of Mayfair in which she’d danced away countless evenings. She should slip out the door with her bag of potatoes, find her coach before it became a pumpkin, and get home while there was still light in the sky. Too bad she had no coach.
    She dropped down on the bench and pulled her bedraggled skirts up over her knees. Trying to move Evershot to generosity was one of those impossible fairy-tale tasks like spinning straw into gold.
    At least she had the straw. She had only to pick it out of her skirts.
    She bent to her work, her mind taking up familiar and dismal calculations. If she simply did nothing, in time, six years to be exact, things would right themselves. In six years she would turn thirty and have access to her money with no interference from her trustees. In eight years Charlie would come of age. Though he was now the Right Honorable Lord Woford, as a minor, he had no access to his fortune.
    At the time of her father’s death, his half brother, Archibald March, had come to their aid when everything seemed most difficult and confusing. But Uncle March had had shocking revelations to make of the circumstances of her father’s death and the size of his gaming debts. Cleo had agreed immediately to the