The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Not an insurmountable one, but a hurdle nonetheless.

  The unrelenting determination that welled from somewhere deep inside him to successfully overcome that stumbling block was the aspect that most unnerved him.

  He hauled his mind from dwelling on it further and, instead, thought of the sign and of Peabody, too...

  The idea that sparked had him blinking, then thinking, weighing up whether the notion was sound and something to be pursued or if Sylvia would see it as an unwarranted encroachment.

  Before he could decide, he fetched up on the pavement before her lodging house. He opened the gate, walked up the short path, and climbed the steps to the front porch. He paused to straighten his jacket, then lifted the brass knocker and beat a polite tattoo.

  After a minute of silence, footsteps—not Sylvia’s—approached the door. It opened to reveal an older woman of perhaps fifty summers, with graying brown hair drawn back in a bun and a knitted shawl draped about her shoulders. Her faded brown eyes passed over Kit in a careful perusal, then she inquired, “Yes, sir?”

  Kit smiled his most charming smile. “Good afternoon. I wonder if I might have a word with Miss Buckleberry.”

  The woman, presumably Sylvia’s landlady, regarded him shrewdly for several seconds, then asked, “And who shall I say is calling?”

  Kit kept his smile in place; on one level, it was comforting to know that Sylvia had a dragon, however mild, guarding her door. “Lord Kit Cavanaugh.”

  The woman eyed him with increased interest. Then something in her stance changed, and Kit realized she’d decided to approve of him. As if to confirm that, she nodded, more to herself than to him, then she bobbed and said, “Miss Sylvia hasn’t come home yet, my lord. She’ll be in her office for a good hour more. Dedicated to that school, she is. She has a very good heart.”

  The last was said as if to impress the fact on him. Kit smiled more genuinely. “I know. And it’s about the school that I wish to speak with her.” Sylvia hadn’t mentioned an office. “Can you direct me to her office?”

  The woman considered him again, but must have seen enough in his face to trust him. “It’s in the building beside Christ Church, up along Broad Street. Her office is on the second floor, at the back overlooking the rear of the church.”

  “Thank you.” Kit smiled. “And your name?”

  She bobbed again. “Mrs. Macintyre, your lordship.”

  Kit inclined his head. “Again, thank you, Mrs. Macintyre. My best wishes for a pleasant evening.”

  “And to you, your lordship.”

  Kit tipped her a salute, turned, and went down the path. He closed the gate behind him, paused to consider his way, then strode for Christ Church and the building beside it.

  The latter proved to be as old as the church. The door was unlocked. Kit went in and looked around the small foyer. From the list of tenants’ names displayed on a board on the wall inside the door, he surmised that the building was owned by the church and used primarily for church-linked organizations. Although it was quiet, the hum of distant conversations and the occasional footstep testified to the presence of others in the various offices.

  Kit climbed the narrow stone stairs, continuing past the first floor to the second. He stepped off the stairs onto a worn runner and followed it toward the back of the building. There he found a row of small offices, most with their doors shut. He approached the door that stood wide open, shedding the last of the afternoon’s light into the dimly lit corridor.

  He walked slowly—silently—into the doorway and saw Sylvia, head bent, seated behind an ancient desk. She was scribbling in an open ledger. He raised a hand and rapped lightly on the frame.

  She looked up and blinked in surprise.

  Lips curving, Kit inclined his head. “Good afternoon. Can I disturb you?”

  She blinked again, then waved him in. “Of course.” Then she fixed him with widening eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  Kit thought she looked delightful, with wisps of golden hair escaping from her usually neat bun. “No,” he assured her with a smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  He moved forward to take the chair she’d indicated, the one before the desk. The office felt close, pokey and cramped, yet she’d made it her own with journals and books on education practices lined up along the top of a small bureau and an incongruously bright silk scarf looped over the hat stand in the corner.

  Kit subsided into the chair and smiled into her eyes. “I just wanted to let you know that Councilor Peabody called on me yesterday, and we discussed his views on the school’s new location. I believe I convinced him to rethink his opposition, but I understand he called at the school first.”

  Her expression grew stern, and she clasped her hands before her. “Indeed, and in a quite vexing way. It was our first day there, and everything had been going swimmingly, then Peabody walked in and declared his hateful stance.” She hesitated, then went on, “Of course, the boys heard him—he made it quite clear that he didn’t want dockside brats, as he labeled them, in that neighborhood.” Censure rang in her tone. “After that, I felt it was necessary for the boys to hear my defense of them.”

  Kit wished he’d witnessed it.

  She raised her gaze and met his eyes. “I made sure to mention—for the boys’ ears as well as Peabody’s—all the support the school has received from respectable and powerful quarters. Your name, especially, gave Peabody pause, enough that he wanted to check with you before pushing further. I hope it was all right to send him your way.”

  “Yes.” Kit nodded decisively. “That was precisely the right thing to do—and if, in the future, the school is visited by others of Peabody’s ilk, I hope you will refer them to me. I stand ready and willing to put them straight regarding the school and its value to the community.”

  Her smile was reward and more. “Thank you. That’s...something of a relief. I’ll make sure Jellicoe and Cross know to”—her smile deepened, and the blue of her eyes darkened—“wield your title like a shield.”

  His gaze locked with hers, Kit chuckled. “Indeed.” Then he sobered. “Actually...”

  Now it came to it, he was reluctant to share his most recent idea with her—just in case she took umbrage—yet it would be so easy to do, and the incident with Peabody was the perfect illustration of what they could hope to avoid.

  Looking into her pretty blue eyes, he forced himself to explain, “I’m about to order a sign for our workshop—Cavanaugh Yachts. And after this business with Peabody, I wondered if you would consider it appropriate for the school to have a sign, too. Say ‘Cavanaugh’s School’ or something similar. Some label that declares my interest in the school, thus deflecting further attacks from the likes of Peabody.” He paused, then added, “Of course, such a sign would also advertise my name and help establish it within the wider community, which, from a business perspective, is something I need to do. As I mentioned earlier, I intend to put down roots here, and making the Cavanaugh name visible is an important part of that.”

  He’d decided to couch his suggestion as something that benefited him as much as, if not more than, the school to reduce the chance of her feeling the school, and therefore she, would be even more beholden to him than was already the case.

  Apparently, he needn’t have bothered; she stared at him as if much struck, and although he looked closely, he couldn’t detect any hint of disapproval in her face or her eyes.

  When she didn’t immediately speak, he added, somewhat diffidently, “If you approve, I thought I could order the sign for the school together with the one for the workshop.”

  Sylvia let the full implication of his suggestion sink in. The benefits would be enormous; what was surprising was that she hadn’t thought of it herself. “That,” she breathed, looking into a far more stable future, “would be marvelous.”

  She refocused on Kit in time to see his quick, slightly
lopsided, and, she now knew, entirely genuine smile flash into being. Eagerly, she went on, “The boys, the staff, and all associated with the school will be delighted.” To be attending a school publicly acknowledged as supported by Lord Cavanaugh would be a huge boost to the boys’ confidence and that of the staff as well. Simply having his name attached to the school would ensure ongoing funding from the parish council and the continued support of the Abbey. And it would give people like the disapproving old lady in Trinity Street reason to rethink their views.

  She realized she was beaming and directed her smile at him. “That truly is a wonderful offer. On behalf of the school, I can’t thank you enough.” If he’d been less of a danger to her senses, she would have leapt up, rounded the desk, and given him an appreciative hug.

  Just the thought made her feel warm, and she thrust it down and focused on the practical. “Of course, as the school exists under the Dean’s auspices, we’ll need to get his approval, but he’s a sensible man, and I can’t see him disagreeing.”

  “If you could check with him,” Kit said, “I’ll speak to the prior. As the Abbey owns the hall, we should get their permission to put up a sign. That said, I expect they will welcome the suggestion—the sign will subtly link my name with the Abbey as well.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Enthusiasm bubbled through her. “I’ll speak with the Dean after the service tomorrow and send you word.”

  “Excellent. I’ll visit the Abbey tomorrow as well, and with luck, I’ll be able to order the signs on Monday.”

  Sylvia was still beaming. She met Kit’s eyes, and it seemed they shared a moment of perfect understanding and achievement.

  “So tell me,” Kit said, pleased by the depth of their connection yet slightly unnerved by it as well, “how are the boys and the staff taking to their new digs?”

  “They are close to ecstatic. When I called around yesterday to see how they were doing, the boys—”

  Kit listened as she described the scene and what the teachers had said and Miss Meggs’s evident pleasure. Even more, he watched her face, marveling at the animation that infused her features when she spoke of the school—her passion. It was the same with him and yachts; he fully understood the intense satisfaction when things went right.

  “And,” Sylvia continued, forearms resting on her ledgers, which she’d plainly forgotten all about, “it’s doubly fortunate that Jellicoe and Cross share lodgings just around the corner. It makes opening and locking up the school each day so much easier.”

  When she focused on his eyes, he smiled back, letting her see that, in truth, he was just as pleased as she—that he shared her commitment to the school. Again, the moment held—a shimmering, intangible connection flowing between them.

  The thunder of footsteps racing along the corridor tore them from their momentary fixation and had them both shifting to look at the open doorway.

  A boy skidded into view, gasping, his eyes wild.

  Sylvia pushed to her feet. “Eddie! What’s the matter?”

  The boy made a valiant attempt to catch his breath. Grabbing hold of the door frame, he blurted, “It’s the school, miss. It’s on fire!”

  Already on his feet, Kit bit back an oath. He met Sylvia’s shocked gaze, then waved her to the door. “Come on.” He caught Eddie’s shoulder, steadying the boy. He eased Eddie back into the corridor as Sylvia rushed around her desk, swiped up her reticule from the top of the bureau, and hurried after them.

  Kit briefly met her eyes, then strode with Eddie toward the stairs. “Don’t try to speak yet,” Kit told the boy. “You can tell us all once we’re in a hackney.”

  He heard Sylvia shut and lock her office door, then she came rushing along behind them.

  They went down the stairs at a run. Emerging onto the pavement, Kit put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill note. A hackney driver farther up the street heard and quickly steered his horse their way.

  The instant the carriage halted, Kit lifted Eddie up. “In you go.” He turned and handed Sylvia up, then paused with his boot on the step and looked at the driver. “Trinity Street. It’s an emergency. There’s a guinea in it for you if you get us there fast.”

  The driver straightened and saluted. “Right, guv.”

  Kit flung himself onto the seat beside Sylvia, and the driver swung the carriage into a tight turn, then sent his horse racing for the Frome Bridge.

  Given it was Saturday afternoon, the traffic was light, and the driver took Kit’s challenge to heart. The hackney racketed along the cobbles at a punishing pace.

  “Oh!” Sylvia tried to catch her balance as the jarvey turned onto the bridge at speed.

  Kit laid his arm along the back of the seat, closed his hand about her right shoulder, and braced her against his chest. He sensed the jolt that shot through her at his touch, but she didn’t shake free of his protective hold.

  Good, his inner self said.

  Once the hackney had turned off the bridge, he leaned forward and, across Sylvia, caught Eddie’s still-wide eyes. “Now—tell us what happened.”

  “I’d brought me mum and the nippers to see the new hall—just from the outside.” Eddie gulped in air, the moment apparently etched in his young mind. “We were on the pavement in front of the school when Mr. Cross came charging up that little alley that runs beside the hall—the one that leads to the backyard. Mr. Cross was coughing something fearful, but he saw me and caught my arm and told me someone had set fire to the hall and that I had to go and fetch help. He said he had to get back to Mr. Jellicoe, and he went.” Eddie paused, eyes round. “I didn’t know where to go—who I was supposed to tell—and neither did me mum. We’d come to your office when I first joined the school, so I thought I should look for you there.”

  Kit nodded reassuringly. “Well done.” Eddie would have done better to run to the firehouse, but Kit didn’t know where that was and doubted Eddie or his mum did, either.

  Sylvia patted Eddie’s hand. “You did very well.”

  The hackney rocketed along St. Augustine’s Back and on along the Butts and finally swung into Trinity Street.

  The first thing they saw was a thick pall of smoke roiling and billowing upward from the rear of the new school hall.

  CHAPTER 7

  The jarvey halted his horse upwind of the smoke. “Close as I can get, guv’nor, if that’s where you’re headed.”

  “Thank you. It is.” Grim-faced, Kit got down, tossed the jarvey a guinea, then helped Sylvia, who was scrambling to the pavement.

  Her hand clutching his, she straightened and stared at the smoke pouring up and out from the school’s rear yard. “Dear God!”

  “Don’t panic.” Kit had noticed that there was surprisingly little activity in the street—just a woman and three young children waiting by the hall’s steps. “From the look of that smoke, they’ve already put out the blaze.”

  “Oh, thank heavens!” Relief swamped Sylvia’s features.

  Keeping hold of her hand—holding her back from rushing down the alley toward the fire—Kit nodded to Eddie as the boy leapt down from the hackney. “You did well to fetch us, but now go with your mother.”

  “Yes, sir—my lord.” Big-eyed, Eddie scampered toward his family.

  Gripping Sylvia’s hand more firmly, Kit led the way down the narrow alley that ran along the side of the hall.

  The smoke was thinning as they stepped onto the cobbles of the rear yard.

  Sylvia held her breath and swiftly scanned the scene. A deeper wave of relief swept through her at the sight of Jellicoe and Cross, soot-streaked and mopping tears from their eyes, but otherwise apparently unharmed.

  A bevy of neighbors was hanging over the rear fence and both side fences; from the buckets dangling from several hands, the neighbors had helped ferry water to put out the flames. Evidently, not everyone wished the school gone.

  Kit r
eleased her hand and nodded to Jellicoe and Cross.

  Sylvia hurried to where they were slumped against the side of the privy. “Are you all right?” When both nodded, she asked, “What happened?”

  Jellicoe waved a hand before his face, batting away the lingering smoke. “We came to take a look at our notes for Monday’s lessons, smelt smoke, tried to get out of the back door and couldn’t, then we raced around and found that.” He pointed to a pile of wood stacked against the hall’s back door. “It was well alight—or so we thought—with flames leaping up against the door. I sent Cross to get help while I tried to beat out the flames with a sack. Then the sack caught fire as well.”

  Cross took up the tale. “I found Eddie out front—sheer luck—and sent him for help.” Cross squinted up at her through watering eyes. “I take it he thought I meant you.”

  Sylvia smiled gently. “He did.”

  Cross humphed. “Luckily, the neighbors smelt the smoke, too, and came to help.” He waved at the watching men. “Thank you all.”

  The men nodded and smiled, and one called, “Put all of us at risk, the blighters did—fires spread quickly in streets like ours. Any idea who it was?”

  A dark murmur of agreement rippled through the onlookers.

  Kit, who had been studying the smoldering wood, replied, “Not yet.”

  Words and tone held a promise of retribution that seemed to satisfy the watching men.

  Then Kit flicked out a handkerchief, anchored it over his nose, and walked to the still-smoking pile. He stared for a moment, then bent, picked up a broken branch, and prodded and scraped at what looked like remnants of rags hanging off the logs. After a moment, he said, “These rags were soaked in some sort of liquid fuel—that’s why your sack caught fire. But the rags were placed on top of the wood, so although the rags burned merrily, most of the wood didn’t catch, then when you tried to force the back door, the pile shifted, and the rags fell over the front of the logs.”

  Slowly, Kit rose, frowning down at the detritus. Then he raised his gaze and scanned the hall’s rear wall.