by Kate Bateman
Georgie smiled as she recognized the same awed reaction she herself had exhibited the previous day. She pointed at the mechanical workings of the submarine. “Do any of these particular parts look familiar to you? Has anyone ever asked you to make any of them?”
Harrison’s wrinkled face clouded as he searched his memory. “Now I think on it, yes. Yes.” He pointed at a larger, close-up section. “I made that particular series of taps and gauges for a gentleman a month or two ago.”
Georgie glanced at Wylde, scarcely able to hide her elation, but Harrison was still talking.
“I thought at the time it was an unusual commission, but he told me it was for some top secret Admiralty project. Some kind of weather-measuring device. It was for a submarine though, eh?” He wheezed a delighted chuckle. “How interesting.”
Wylde leaned forward. “Do you happen to recall the name of the person who commissioned that piece?”
Harrison glanced up reluctantly from the plans. “I can look. It should be in my receipt book.” He bustled away into the back room, and Georgie turned to Wylde with a little bounce of excitement. He shook his head, a silent warning not to raise her hopes.
“Ah, here we are.” Harrison returned, holding a large, leather-bound ledger book. “It was ordered by a Mr. Johnstone. Paid for in cash.”
Georgie tried to keep the triumph off her face. “We’d be very interested to speak with this Mr. Johnstone. I don’t suppose he left an address?”
The old man drew his finger across the handwritten entry. “He did, as a matter of fact. I had a boy deliver an extra set of hinges to him at…” He squinted, trying to read his own handwriting. “White Lion Yard, off Ore Street in Limehouse.”
Georgie beamed. “That is wonderfully helpful, Mr. Harrison. Thank you so much.”
The inventor indicated the curling plans on the counter. “My pleasure. I don’t suppose I might keep these for a day or two, for a closer look?”
“I’m afraid we can’t allow you that courtesy, sir,” Wylde said apologetically. “The Admiralty wants them back with all haste.”
“Pity. I’d give my eyeteeth to meet the man who designed such a contraption.”
“That would be an American by the name of Robert Fulton,” Georgie said. “Unfortunately, he’s back in his homeland now.”
Harrison sighed. “Ah well. If I can be of any further assistance, do let me know. I always enjoyed working with your late father, God rest his soul, and I’m glad you’re following in his footsteps so admirably.”
Georgie blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison, that means a great deal. I shall call on you again soon. Good day.”
Wylde rolled the plans and replaced them in the tube, and together they stepped back out onto the street. Georgie took a deep satisfied breath. “Well, that was a stroke of luck. I never dreamed we would be quite so successful.”
He shot her a condescending look. “Beginner’s luck.”
She punched him playfully on the arm. “Unkind, Mr. Wylde! Give credit where it’s due.”
He sighed theatrically. “Very well. You have been enormously helpful. Thank you.”
She accepted that with a jaunty smile. “My pleasure. Now, since Caversteed Shipping’s offices are just around that corner, how would you like to see my warehouse?”
Pieter, holding the head of the lead horse beside the carriage, rolled his eyes at her shameless attempt to prolong the outing, but Georgie ignored him.
Wylde offered her his bent arm. “I would be delighted.”
She shot Pieter a winning smile. “I do believe we’ll walk, Pieter, and I know you don’t like to keep the horses standing. Perhaps you can take them for a slow drive until we’re done? We shouldn’t be above half an hour.”
Pieter sent Wylde a frowning glare that clearly warned him to be on his best behavior or face dire consequences, and climbed reluctantly up onto the driver’s seat. “As you wish, miss.”
Georgie smiled up at Wylde. “This way.”
Chapter 24.
As soon as Pieter had driven off, Georgie turned to Wylde. “So, next stop Limehouse?”
He let out a bark of laughter. “No chance. My Bow Street colleagues, Alex and Seb, and I will take things from here. We need to proceed with caution, not just go blundering in there, asking questions and frightening people off.”
“I wouldn’t do anything like that.”
His skeptical look made her want to stamp on his foot.
“Believe me, I’ve dealt with situations like this before,” he said. “We need to know how many people we’re dealing with, for starters. You said it yourself; Johnstone could have a whole team of people working with him. They could be armed. I’m not putting you in that kind of danger, Georgie, so you can forget about trying to convince me otherwise.”
Georgie closed her mouth against the urge to do precisely that. He had a fair point. He was far more experienced in this sort of thing. And his desire to keep her safe from harm was rather sweet. Misguided, of course, but sweet.
As they rounded the end of the street, the wide bowl of the harbor came into view. Georgie grinned at the familiar sight of bobbing, jostling ships and tugged him toward the wharf. There was always something happening here. Cranes and winches were busy unloading crates of produce, while the air swirled with the smell of the refuse floating in the grey-brown water. She shuddered at the bobbing corpse of a bloated rat. She’d once seen a group of boys playing a disgusting game whereby they actually threw the inflated rats at one other, like some sort of revolting exploding missile. It was so unsanitary, she couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. No wonder people said the docks were no place for a lady.
And yet her father had always allowed her to come here with him to watch their ships come in. She’d found it endlessly fascinating, spinning tales in her imagination of all the exotic and wonderful places the goods had come from.
Wylde took her arm, his fingers gentle at her elbow, and they dodged a couple of sailors with tarred pigtails and an oyster seller with his wheelbarrow. Georgie pointed to a vessel farther down the wharf with a proud smile. “That’s one of mine.”
He shielded his eyes against the low, weak sun and read the painted nameplate on the bow. “The Lady Alice.”
“Named after my mother.” Her smile was bittersweet. “Father was always aware that he couldn’t provide her with a real title, despite his wealth. He knew the ton looked down on her for being ‘tarnished by trade.’ This was the only way he could make her a lady.”
“There’s a measure of security in a title,” he agreed easily. “Just as there is in wealth.”
She nodded, glad he understood. “That’s why Mother’s so keen for my sister to marry a peer. She wants Juliet to have all the advantages she never had.” She gave a half laugh, half sigh. “It drives me mad, but I can’t fault her for it.”
Wylde nodded at the vessel. “What kind of ship is she?”
“A brig. They’re popular among pirates because of their speed and maneuverability, but we use them as standard cargo ships. She’s just about to head off to Boston.”
They stood side by side and watched as men loaded crate after crate of oranges onto the deck.
“What are the oranges for?”
“One thing the navy discovered while fighting Bonaparte was that citrus fruits, like oranges and limes, prevent scurvy. Our sailors stayed healthier than the French thanks to a regular supply of lemon juice and fruit. The Americans call our sailors ‘Limeys’ now because of it.” She glanced up at him. “After reading Dr. Lind’s Treatise on Scurvy I decided to adopt it as a health measure on my own ships. I haven’t lost a man to scurvy in three years.”
“That sounds like thrilling bedtime reading,” he mocked gently. “I applaud the care you take for your crew members, but I truly believe I’d rather read a whole volume of Mr. Pettigrew’s verses than a medical treatise on scurvy.”
* * *
Benedict shook his head as he tried to reconcile the vibrant, mu
ltifaceted woman beside him with the first impressions he’d made of her. He’d imagined she would turn out to be a prim, haughty, ice princess with no care for anything except the cost of her gown and the elevated title of her next dance partner. He couldn’t have been more wrong. She was astonishing. Her natural aptitude for the scientific and mathematical was as delightful as it was surprising. He admired her business-like brain, her sharp wit, and the fearsome intellect that challenged him on so many levels. She was in her element here, he realized, surrounded by the cutthroat hustle and bustle of trade.
She didn’t need to work. She could have done nothing with her life and lived off the interest of her fortune, wallowing in luxury in the safety of Grosvenor Square. Instead, she’d chosen to take on the challenge of running a business, to prove her mettle in an overwhelmingly male-dominated environment. His respect for her went up another notch.
He shouldn’t be surprised, though. War had shown him that people were rarely what one expected. He’d seen huge brawny fellows full of braggadocio before a battle cowering and whimpering like puppies by the side of their canon when the battle was in full flow. And he’d seen a skinny drummer boy, pale with fright, bend and pick up the fallen colors and face the enemy with a bellow of defiance. It was what a man—or woman—did when they were tested that showed their true worth.
He’d proved himself during the war. Despite the gut-wrenching, ball-tightening fear, the horror and misery of countless battles, he’d come out of it as a man secure in his ability to face adversity. Georgie wanted to prove that she was worthy of her fortune, of carrying on her father’s legacy. She was doing an admirable job.
She was responsible for the welfare of not just her immediate family, but for the hundreds of other people who relied on Caversteed Shipping for their livelihoods, and yet she shouldered the weight of that responsibility with apparent ease.
The fact that he found her competency arousing was barely worth mentioning. He seemed to find everything about her—from her expressive grey eyes to the sly curl of her lip when she thought something was funny—arousing. Just being near her was an exercise in restraint.
He glared across the river at the barren, boggy opposite shore known as the Isle of Dogs in an attempt to ignore the pull of her. The air was foggy, the weak sun filtering through the clouds. He’d forgotten the damp chill of England in March. It was such a contrast to the searing heat of Spain, the harsh glare. He missed the warmth, but not the bullets flying at him. It was infinitely preferable to be standing here with this woman on his arm, chilled or not.
His overstimulated brain dutifully provided a hundred different ways in which he could warm her up. Very few of them required clothes.
She tugged on his arm. “My offices are in that building there, above the warehouse. Come on.”
He followed her toward the large red brick building, smiling at her enthusiasm.
“I come here every month to look over the books and discuss things with my business manager, Edmund Shaw.”
“Can’t he just bring the books to you?”
She smiled up at him guilelessly, and he felt the familiar tug in his groin. Blasted woman. Why couldn’t she have been ugly? And dull. And unavailable.
“He could, I suppose, but I love coming here. It makes me feel closer to my father. And besides, I don’t have to hide how good I am at figures here, as I do when I’m in the ton.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Mother and Juliet don’t understand. They have no interest in the business. They just want to go to parties and routs.”
“And what do you want?”
She wrinkled her nose. “When I was younger, all I ever wanted to do was jump aboard one of our ships and sail away to see the world. I wanted to visit the Mediterranean, India, the Americas. Father and Pieter were always catching me trying to stow away in the hold.” She laughed. “I vowed that as soon as I was a widow, I would go on a grand tour, just as the men do. Venice, Madrid, Vienna.” Her face clouded. “I doubt Mother or Juliet could be persuaded to leave London, though. And adventures are no fun unless you have someone to share them with.”
Benedict bit back his instinctive response—that such a trip should be a honeymoon, with him. Impossible. They were too different. He spent his time in seedy backstreets among thieves and drunkards, murderers and pimps. A world of sweat and ale, sawdust and spit, vomit, mud, and blood. She was Grosvenor Square—bright, sparkling silver, unchipped china, rugs that weren’t threadbare and faded by the sun, warm wood polished with beeswax.
There would be no honeymoon. After the wedding, they would go their separate ways.
He forced a casual shrug. “You could still go once we’re officially married. You could find a companion to go with you.”
Another woman, he added silently. The thought of her sharing it with another man made his blood boil. He wanted to be the one she turned to with a breathless smile to point out some crumbling old ruin.
She nodded, blissfully unaware of his seething thoughts. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need. A partner in crime. I suppose you’ve seen quite a lot of Europe during your time in the army?”
Benedict hid a grimace. He’s seen battlefields, mainly. His tour of the Spanish peninsula had consisted of the sieges of Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, the battles of Salamanca, Pamplona, and Valencia. Then it had been a slog through France and Belgium culminating in the bloody fights at Quatre Bras and Waterloo last year.
Perhaps it would do him good to go back and see the same places not covered in dead men and horses, to see how the land was healing. Or maybe it would just bring back memories too painful to reexamine. He still had nightmares, odd moments when a particular sound or scent would plunge him right back into some hellish time he’d rather forget.
He shook his head. If he ever revisited those places, he’d make it his mission to replace the bad memories with good ones. Georgie would love Salamanca—the hilltop fortress and the great cathedral. And he’d love kissing her senseless up against the sun-warmed walls until she was soft and pliant in his arms. He’d make love to her by the window of some grand pension. She could admire the view before he made her lose her mind …
He bit back a groan as his body reacted predictably to his heated visions. From the corner of his eye, he could see the tempting curve of her neck, the smooth line of her jaw. The coils of shimmering hair that made his fingers itch to unpin it. A red lust clouded his vision and a slow heat rose in his limbs. His throat tightened. He imagined her hair spread around her in waves, her naked body lifting, arching up toward him, the sounds she would make—little breathless gasps—as he drove into her.
“Benedict?”
What had she asked him? Oh yes, his travels.
“Mmm,” he managed hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve seen quite a bit of France and Spain, I suppose.”
He was saved from elaborating when she nodded to the sentry guarding the entrance to the warehouse. The man doffed his hat at her in recognition.
“Hello, George. Is Mr. Shaw here?”
“Just popped over to the Royal Ensign to get some lunch.” The sentry pointed to the public house a little farther down the wharf. “He’ll be back in a bit.”
She nodded and entered the enormous building, drawing Benedict in her wake.
Chapter 25.
Georgie watched Benedict inspect the vast warehouse with a swell of pride at his obvious admiration. The sight never failed to impress her either.
“My God, how rich are you?” he breathed, taking in the row upon row of neatly stacked shelves.
She couldn’t hide her smile at his plain-spokenness. No one had ever asked her that outright, although she was sure everyone had wanted to. Trust Benedict to go straight to the point. She decided on equal candor. “Well, I suppose you could say I’m extremely rich. If one were being vulgar about it.”
His smile was slow and melting. “There’s a lot to be said for vulgarity.” He stepped into the first aisle and bent to inspect a newly opened crate of tea leaves, an
d Georgie stole an appreciative glance at the way his breeches clung to his long thighs and outlined his taut rear. He was right; being vulgar definitely had its advantages.
She inhaled deeply, loving the combined scents that filled the air. The warehouse always smelled so wonderful, of spices and perfumes, lumber and tea. Aromas so seductive they conjured up all kinds of intoxicating, romantic images. She thrust her hand into the tea crate and let a handful of the wizened black leaves trickle through her fingers.
“You smell that? It’s a special kind of black tea flavored with bergamot oil. We sell it exclusively to Jacksons of Piccadilly.” She brought her palm up to her nose and sniffed appreciatively. “The oil comes from a fruit, the bergamot orange, which grows in Italy.”
Her heart twisted painfully. Father had always smelled of tea leaves and sandalwood, like fragrant pencil shavings. Being subtle about it, she leaned closer to Benedict and took a surreptitious sniff. He smelled gorgeous. Of the sea, the sun, the earth. Like she imagined the breeze from a Mediterranean island might smell as it wafted over the sea, a clean, masculine version of rosemary and pine, with a delicious salty tang of skin beneath. She groaned silently as her knees turned to jelly.
“This place always reminds me of that children’s rhyme,” she said. “You know, the one that goes: ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice. That’s what little girls are made of.’”
He nodded. “I know it. Little boys are made of slugs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. Hardly flattering. There’s a second verse too. ‘Ribbons and laces and sweet pretty faces, that’s what young women are made of.’”
His eyes roamed her face, and her heart skipped a beat. “I’d prefer to be associated with something a little more exotic,” Georgie managed. She waved her hand at the surrounding shelves. “Like ambergris and sandalwood, jasmine and kohl.” Scents that could seduce and stupefy the senses. She wanted to be the type of woman who had that effect, who made men dizzy, who could bring a man like Wylde to his knees.
