“Oh, yes. The time in Norfolk. Where he cruelly parted you from Brentley before driving the poor man’s financial situation off a cliff.”
Her sister shook her head. “Eliza, don’t say such things. Not where he can overhear. You’re so mistaken, and I won’t have a good man impugned. Not here, not today.”
Eliza’s brain was whirling. Harry Wright, a good man? A man worth Philippa’s defenses and little Alice’s devotion?
“I’ll tell you everything.” Philippa handed the baby to Georgie and drew Eliza to a hushed side chapel.
There were no seats, so they knelt side by side and folded their hands in an attitude of prayer.
“You’re all wrong about Mr. Wright and Brentley. Harry wasn’t a bad influence, he was trying to save his friend. Brentley told me everything in Norfolk. He and I were friends, Eliza—nothing more.”
Eliza pressed her lips together, skeptical.
“Anyhow, Brentley’s finances have been a shambles ever since he inherited. That wasn’t his fault. He assumed the title at such a young age, he never knew how to improve the situation. He spent a great deal of time in gambling hells and at card tables, hoping for luck.”
“I don’t suppose he found it.”
Philippa shook her head. “Of course not. He only fell deeper into debt. Harry was watching it all, unable to stop him—but he did his best to stay close and keep him out of worse mischief. That’s why they came to Norfolk for the summer. But it all started long before.
“Several years ago, Brentley placed a frightfully large wager at White’s, inscribed in their famous betting book. He lost, and he had no money to pay. Mr. Wright claimed the debt instead. He said there was some mistake in recording the wager, and his was supposed to be the name.”
“But…but how would he pay? Mr. Wright has no money.”
“Not anymore,” Philippa said. “Don’t you see? That’s where all his allowance and funds went, for years. He wasn’t living high—he was paying the debt in increments. But his creditor grew impatient, went to the Duke of Shiffield, and demanded the entire sum.”
Eliza reeled on the kneeling bench. “So that’s why the duke cut him off.”
Philippa nodded.
“But why would Mr. Wright do that? He ruined his finances and reputation just for Brentley’s sake? Brentley’s insolvent now anyway.”
“I don’t know all his reasons. You’d have to ask Mr. Wright. All I can say is that Brentley thinks the world of him. And after he brought me and Peter together, I rather adore him too.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza stole a glimpse of the man. He’d found his way full circle to Alice again, who now slept cradled in her father’s arms. While the two men talked and admired the sleeping babe, Eliza admired the men. Well, one of the men. She wasn’t sure what she’d once seen in Peter Everhart, but her appreciation for Mr. Wright was ballooning by the second.
His physical traits—handsome profile, dark hair, and untidy cravat—were so familiar. But she felt as though she were truly seeing him for the very first time. It all made sense now. Naturally he was perpetually disheveled compared to other gentlemen, because he couldn’t engage the services of a valet. Always coasting by on a wicked joke and a smile, because until he inherited—decades from now, most likely—those charms would be his only currency.
What a price he’d paid, and all on the basis of a mere friendship. The woman who captured Harry Wright’s heart would be lucky indeed. Especially if she were a sweet, cooing, golden-haired infant who already had him wrapped around her tiny finger.
Alice couldn’t know her good fortune.
“I can’t think of any man I’d rather have as her godfather,” Philippa said.
Eliza sighed. “Then neither can I.”
AFTER THE CHRISTENING, they all returned to the house for breakfast. Mr. Wright sought her out in the crowded room.
As he moved toward her, Eliza bid herself to stay calm and collected. She hoped she managed a cooler outward appearance, because her insides were in turmoil.
He was growing handsomer by the second. Not only handsome, but respectable in polite company and admirable in the eyes of her family and friends. How was she supposed to pretend indifference?
“Miss Eliza.” He inclined his head in greeting and offered her a glass of lemonade. “I hear you are at long last going to have your grand come-out ball.”
“In just a few months.” She accepted the cool, perspiring glass. “I’ll be the oldest debutante London has seen in a score of seasons.”
“I doubt that. But you’ll be the most successful, I’m sure. Dare I hope for an invitation? After today, I’m practically family.” When she choked on her sip of lemonade, he gave her an amused look. “I notice that you failed to interrupt the christening and expose my villainy before God and Peter Everhart.”
She cringed. “I had a talk with Philippa. My sister told me everything about Brentley. Or at least, more than I ever could have guessed.”