The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Jack’s eyes lit. “Cor—too right I am, sir—your lordship!” Jack bobbed multiple times.

  Kit laughed and set a hand on his shoulder. “In that case, welcome aboard.” He glanced at Miss Petty. “Why don’t you and Mulligan give Miss Petty your full name and let her sign you on to the payroll and work out your wages so you’ll get them next Friday with the other men?” Kit nodded at the gantry struts that the others had gone back to assembling. “Then you can join us in putting the gantry together.”

  Leaving Mulligan to steer a dazed Jack to where Miss Petty stood waiting, Kit shrugged out of his coat, set it aside, and returned to assist Wayland and the other men.

  Mulligan soon returned, with Jack the Lad in tow. As they worked, first Wayland, then Mulligan and the other men took to sending Jack to fetch and return tools. When Wayland asked Jack for an angle, Jack returned with a selection as Wayland hadn’t specified.

  Miss Petty seemed to be the only employee who viewed Jack as if she was as yet unconvinced of the wisdom of taking him on; Kit was aware of her hovering at the edge of the action, writing notes on what she needed to order for her and Mulligan’s office as well as the larger office Wayland would make his design studio, yet also keeping a sharp eye on proceedings and on Jack especially.

  Eventually, they reached the point of driving in the final large nails to lock the main section of the moveable gantry together. The four carpenters, together with Wayland and Kit, had to exert themselves to hold various struts tensioned and steady while the honors of driving in the nails fell to Mulligan.

  “Better get the nails in quick,” Wayland warned. “We can’t hold everything in place for long without something shifting.”

  Mulligan nodded and hefted a hammer—one of middling weight.

  Shaw saw and snorted. “Even you’ll need something heavier. You’ll want to drive through the struts in just one or two blows.”

  Mulligan looked at the hammer as if surprised it was the wrong one and grunted—then Jack was by his side, offering the heaviest hammer and reaching for the lighter one...

  The lad had anticipated the need and had fetched the weightier tool.

  Mulligan flicked a glance at Kit as he accepted the heavy hammer, then with well-placed blows, he efficiently drove the nails down, locking the gantry into its final rigid shape.

  As soon as the last nail went in, Wayland released the strut he’d been holding and reached for a right-angle, and again, Jack was there, holding out the correct tool. Wayland nodded his thanks as he took it and quickly went over the corners of the gantry, then he sat back on his heels with a smile and a relieved sigh. “Perfect. Now we can get on.”

  After a while, Kit saw Miss Petty waiting and went over to speak with her. She had, he noticed, stopped watching Jack.

  She held up her notebook as Kit approached. “I believe I have all the information I need, my lord. I’ll get the necessary orders in first thing in the morning.”

  Kit nodded. “Good. If at all possible, push for delivery on Monday. We want to get this space fully transformed and functioning as soon as may be.”

  “I understand you expect more men to commence on Monday?”

  “Yes. It would be helpful, perhaps, were you to spend at least half the day here, taking down details. Mulligan or Mr. Cobworth can help you with rates—not my forte, I fear.”

  “Of course, my lord. I’ll pop into the office on Monday morning and deal with anything urgent, then I’ll make my way here.”

  A burst of general laughter had Kit glancing to where the men were working at attaching various anchors for wheels and pulleys to the gantry prior to hoisting it into position above their heads. The men were still chuckling, and from the direction of their gazes, it was clear the source of merriment was Jack. But the men weren’t laughing at him but with him, and from the pleased smile on Jack’s face, he knew it.

  Kit surmised Jack had made some comment that had elicited the laughter. In an environment in which activity could sometimes become intense, that wasn’t a bad talent to have.

  Beside him, Miss Petty cleared her throat. “I have to say that although I harbored reservations, Jack seems a worthwhile addition to the crew.”

  “He does, indeed.” Kit noticed a gentleman sporting a cane—one more for show than use—walking briskly toward the workshop door. “Who’s this, I wonder?”

  Miss Petty looked, then swept around. “I will ask, my lord. One moment.”

  Bemused, Kit watched as Miss Petty sailed up as the gentleman, seeing her coming, halted just outside the open doors. Straining his ears over the steady din of hammering, Kit heard Miss Petty inquire, “Can I help you, sir?”

  The gentleman looked rather peeved to have been forestalled, but he offered, “Councilor Peabody to see Lord Cavanaugh. It’s about the school.”

  “Please wait here, and I will inquire as to whether his lordship is available.” Miss Petty swung around and walked toward Kit, her eyes widening in question.

  Realizing that his remarkable secretary was giving him a chance to avoid the man, Kit sent her a nod of thanks and moved forward, passing her on his way to the door.

  Fetching up before the shorter man, Kit arched his brows. “Lord Cavanaugh. What did you wish to say about the school?”

  “My name is Peabody, my lord—Councilor Peabody.” Peabody sketched a bow, then straightened and fixed Kit with a man-to-man look. “I have the honor of being the councilor for Abbey Ward, into which neighborhood the school that previously occupied this warehouse has moved. I spoke with the school administrator this morning, and she directed me to you—she claimed you have agreed to stand as sponsor to the school?”

  Kit inclined his head. “I have.”

  Peabody looked ingratiating. “I understand that you have underwritten the transfer of the school to its new premises and that Prior Robert—a godly man with scant experience of secular matters—at your petition, agreed to the school moving into the Abbey’s hall. However, I suspect no one in the city has yet made known to you the...ah, community expectations that apply in various areas. For instance”—Peabody gestured widely—“this area, around the docks and harbor, plays host to homes that house dockside and shipyard workers, as is sensible. In contrast, the area around the Abbey is inhabited by citizens of rather higher social standing. To relocate a school for dockyard brats to such an area risks disrupting the social norms.”

  Despite having taken a deep dislike to the man, Kit kept his expression unreadable and arched his brows. “Is that so? Pray tell, which of society’s norms do you consider to be at risk?”

  Peabody blinked. The silence stretched as he patently tried to find acceptable words in which to cloak his complaint.

  Kit made no move to help him out and simply waited.

  Peabody’s color rose, then he harrumphed and said, “Social norms such as in which areas the various classes live.”

  “I wasn’t aware the city imposes restrictions on where people of various classes reside.” Kit kept his tone mild. “But regardless, the boys are only visiting, as it were. They’re not taking up residence in Trinity Street.”

  “Be that as it may,” Peabody huffed, “those who do live in Trinity Street are complaining!”

  “Indeed?” Kit looked thoughtful. “The school relocated yesterday—today was the first day of classes. How many people have complained?”

  Peabody looked frustrated. He glowered. “When even one of my constituents complain, it is incumbent on me to act.”

  “Indeed.” Kit smiled, the epitome of helpfulness. “You’ve acted and brought the complaint to my notice. Sadly for whoever complained, I’m less than impressed.”

  Peabody started to gobble, but Kit rolled on, ruthlessly charming. “You see, I happen to adhere to the doctrine espoused by Prince Albert and the Queen regarding the education of the poor.” He continued, smoothly explainin
g the belief that education could alleviate poverty. “And you must admit that in a city suffering under the difficulties currently afflicting Bristol, then it is—to use your phrase—incumbent on every gentleman to do his part. Why, my brother the marquess and his wife have established several schools in their area, and at the moment, it’s a rather more prosperous one than Bristol.”

  Enough of Kit’s words penetrated Peabody’s brain that, judging by his expression, his belief in the righteousness of his complaint started to falter.

  Kit continued, enumerating the various local bodies who, in addition to himself, supported the school—namely the Abbey, the Dean, and the Christ Church Parish Council. “Naturally, I also have contacts on the Dock Company board, including the mayor and several aldermen.” Kit was willing to wager a significant sum that Peabody would not contemplate opposing any institution with such wide-ranging support. “I believe you—and your complainant—will discover that the general tide of civic responsibility is firmly behind the school.”

  And if necessary, Kit would ensure that was so.

  Peabody was clever enough to sense the concealed threat. After a moment of weighing his options, he drew in a long breath, then gravely inclined his head. “Clearly, my lord, I had little notion of the true situation regarding the school. In the circumstances, I will endeavor to convey to the complainant the...er...”

  Kit smiled. “The futility of attempting to oust the school?”

  Peabody’s lips primmed, but again, he inclined his head. “Just so, my lord.” After a second’s pause, Peabody reached into his pocket, extracted a card, and offered it. “My card, my lord. If there is any way in which I can assist you in your...civic endeavors, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

  Kit smiled a perfectly genuine smile. “Thank you, councilor. We will hope the school and all its works prosper.”

  That was a trifle rich for Peabody, but all he returned was “Indeed.” With a brief bow and a “my lord,” Peabody beat a strategic retreat.

  Grinning, Kit watched him stride off across the cobbles, then turned inside to discover Miss Petty, Jack, and all the men—with the exception of Wayland—regarding him quizzically.

  Kit arched his brows. “What?”

  The men shook their heads, but Jack blurted, “You told him to pull in his head.”

  Kit considered Jack, then mildly said, “Not, you will note, in those words.”

  The men chortled. Miss Petty looked prim, but pleased.

  Kit threw an arm around Jack’s bony shoulders and steered him back to the gantry. “Now, where were we?”

  They worked like navvies, and by the end of the day, they’d hoisted the gantry, now a moveable frame suspended from the massive braced beams and running along the attached struts, above the workshop floor.

  Miss Petty had left by then, but Kit, Wayland, Mulligan, and the carpenters—and Jack—stood looking up at their creation with, at least on Kit’s part, immense satisfaction.

  He was in an excellent mood, not solely because of how much they’d managed to accomplish in the workshop, but because Sylvia had sent Peabody his way. Kit realized that, in his mind, he already saw himself as the principal champion of the school—and the fact Sylvia apparently viewed him in a similar light set warmth unfurling inside him.

  That curious and richly satisfying glow filled his chest. He liked to feel needed, liked to make things happen—good things like bringing a yacht-building workshop into existence in a city starved of the jobs such an enterprise created. Like helping a threatened school to carry on and protecting it from those wishing it ill.

  Helping Sylvia, helping the teachers, the boys, and all at the school, helping Wayland manifest his dreams, helping Mulligan and his crew and Jack the Lad...and, ultimately, helping himself.

  For him, helping others in one guise or another was how he’d always found his greatest satisfaction, his deepest content.

  He paid the men—and Jack—for the day, adding a little extra to each man’s wage and a little bit more again to Jack’s in appreciation of their sterling efforts.

  His mood remained buoyant as he farewelled the men and Jack, then helped Wayland lock up the warehouse.

  After parting from Wayland, Kit turned his footsteps toward his new home.

  His heart felt remarkably light. He was in what Wayland had termed an uplifted mood, and he owed much of that to Sylvia and her willingness to accept his protection for her school.

  CHAPTER 6

  The following day was Saturday, a half day for most workers. Kit and Wayland joined Mulligan and the others in finishing off the gantry and the partitions for the offices.

  After the men left at midday, Kit and Wayland continued lining the offices with oak planks.

  At one point, Wayland stood, stretched, then shifted to stare out at their evolving workshop. “I can’t quite believe we’re not only here, but have got this far so quickly.”

  Crouched by one wall with nails held between his teeth, Kit merely nodded. Once he’d used the nails to secure the next plank, he replied, “It is hard to take in. Everything’s fallen into place, and how often does that happen?” He rose, stretched his back, then joined Wayland at what would soon be the door to Wayland’s design office. “The offices won’t be ready on Monday, but the workshop is.” Kit couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from his voice. “We’ll be ready to welcome our workforce and plunge into the first project.”

  Wayland nodded, his eagerness apparent. “I think we should set one team to finish the offices—perhaps under Shaw. He has a fine eye for detail. I’ll need the space soon, and I suspect Miss Petty will be glad to take possession of her office here, too.”

  “No doubt. She’s another unexpected boon—who would have thought we’d find a secretary with actual experience of this sort of business?”

  “Definitely an unlooked-for blessing.” Wayland went on, “I’ll set the second team of carpenters under Mulligan to make up the frame for our first hull.”

  Kit shook his head in something approaching wonder. “Our first hull—at last!”

  “So soon,” Wayland countered. “That’s what’s so remarkable.”

  “It feels as if, in bringing our hopes and dreams here, now, at this moment in time, that we’ve fallen into a slot that was just waiting for someone like us to fill it.”

  Wayland nodded. After several seconds more of drinking in the sight of their workshop ready for action, he moved back and picked up another board, then glanced at Kit as he did the same. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to suggest.”

  Hefting up a board, Kit arched his brows, and Wayland went on, “Now we’re up and running, I think it’s time for a sign.” Balancing his board against one hip, he spread his hands in the air. “‘Cavanaugh Yachts. Home to quality ocean-going yachts.’”

  Kit laughed. “You’ve been thinking.”

  “Indeed. And I think it’s time we started advertising. Our first four hulls might be already spoken for, but we want to keep the work ticking over, and building an ocean-going yacht on spec is where this business gets risky.”

  Kit nodded; that was indisputable, and consequently, they needed to open their order book. He envisioned the sign in his mind, thought of how it would look on the front of the building. After a second, he glanced around; they’d fixed the lining boards for half the larger office. He glanced at Wayland, hammering another board into place. “We’ve done enough for today—the men can finish in here on Monday. Why don’t you design the sign, and I’ll look into the best place to have it made?”

  “Excellent idea!” Wayland straightened and set down his hammer on a nearby trestle. “I’ll get the sign designed tonight. For my money, the sooner we get the name of Cavanaugh Yachts associated with this place, the better.”

  Kit agreed. He and Wayland locked up, then parted. Wayland headed off quite jauntily, enthused at the pr
ospect of designing something new. Kit grinned and set off to visit the two sign makers’ shops he remembered passing on his meanderings through the city.

  Both shops were closed, but in the window of each were displayed a range of different signs. From examining those, Kit decided the second shop was the one he would use; he knew the style of Wayland’s work, and the second sign maker looked to have the higher level of skill required to do justice to Wayland’s designs.

  With that decided, Kit paused. The impulse to tell Sylvia of his encounter with Peabody had been hovering in his mind ever since Peabody had walked away. Now, that impulse pressed even more insistently; he really should reassure her of the outcome.

  He’d resisted until now because he hadn’t been sure how to present his part in Peabody’s conversion. The school was so very much Sylvia’s creation, he hadn’t wanted to have her think that he had in any way stepped on her toes, even if she hadn’t been there and had, in fact, sent Peabody to him.

  But he needed to tell her that Peabody had climbed down; she might view him not doing so in an even worse light.

  He turned his steps toward her lodgings. It was after three-thirty; she should be there.

  His attitude to Sylvia—his uncertainty in dealing with her and what drove that—was odd, curious, and a touch unnerving. Had she been a different sort of lady—a London sort of lady—after glimpsing her passion when she’d burst into his office and ranted at him over the school, he would have pursued her openly and directly. But she was a country clergyman’s daughter, and although he hadn’t met her before Rand’s wedding, in London or anywhere else—he felt sure he would remember her if he had—her opinion of him as displayed during the wedding, presumably based solely on his ton reputation, had been anything but flattering. He’d created that reputation as a shield to protect himself from the importunities of young ladies and their matchmaking mamas, and in that regard, it had served him well for over a decade. Now, however, that defensive shield had turned into a hurdle.