The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Kit grinned, then, seeing Mulligan step back from the fray about the keel, ambled over to consult the foreman about what they could do to ensure there wasn’t another break-in.

  After discussing all the options and deciding on the simplest and likely most efficient way of securing the workshop—namely heavy door handles plus a heavy-gauge chain and padlock—Kit quit the workshop and made his way into the city.

  His first stop was the ironmonger Mulligan had recommended for the chain and handles, then he called in at a hardware store for the padlock—the largest and heaviest they had.

  Weighed down with his purchases, he headed for his office. Having gained approval from both the Dean and the Abbey by Sunday afternoon, he’d ordered the signs for the workshop and school on Monday; the sign maker had promised to have both signs ready by the end of the week.

  Miss Petty was seated at a new desk in his outer office, which now looked like an efficient office and not a deserted space. He told her about the damage at the warehouse, then held up the packages he carried as proof that they were taking steps to improve the workshop’s security.

  She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “The maliciousness of certain people never fails to surprise me. I’m no expert on carpentry, but that keel was shaping up to be a thing of beauty.”

  Kit agreed. “Luckily, the damage proved to be relatively minor.” He paused, then said, “It really wasn’t that bad. I think that because everything’s been going along so well, the attack was a bigger shock than, perhaps, the actual damage warranted.”

  With a nod, he continued into his office, turning that observation over and around in his mind. The damage hadn’t been that bad. Given the many tools ready to hand, why had the perpetrator limited himself to inflicting only minor—relatively easily rectified—damage? He could have wrecked the very expensive bilge board. That would have caused Kit, Wayland, and their crew considerable grief. Instead...

  Had the attacker intended to cause serious harm, but not known enough to do so? Or had he been interrupted by something, and he’d fled before he could do serious damage?

  The first scenario would fit the Stenshaw lads. The second...some unknown someone else.

  Kit realized he’d come to a halt before his desk. He set down the packages and rounded the desk to sink into his admiral’s chair. Several letters had been laid neatly on his blotter, and there were several others he needed to write, as well as the reports he’d promised his brothers.

  Pushing the question of who had broken into the workshop to the back of his mind, he picked up his letter opener and got to work.

  In midafternoon, he walked with Miss Petty to the workshop.

  The only evidence of the break-in that remained was a pile of broken struts in one corner and the broken latch dangling uselessly on one door.

  Shaw and one of his team were once again busy in the offices, Shaw plainly doing his best to finish off Miss Petty’s space. He waved a nail at the secretary, who was eyeing him straitly. “Be done by knock-off time today—promise.”

  Kit saw Miss Petty’s lips twitch, but she subdued them and regally inclined her head. “Good. Because I will need to move my files in before I can sort out your wages.”

  His eyes widening, Shaw waved. “Done by this evening—you have my word.” He set the nail in place and drove it home.

  Kit handed his purchases to Mulligan, who immediately started attaching the handles to the main doors.

  Wayland came up, frowning over one of his sketches. Kit spent the next half hour discussing curves and drag and the best timbers for decking.

  Once Wayland went off, grumbling beneath his breath, Kit lent a hand with the work on the keel, keeping himself busy for the rest of the day and ignoring the insistent prick and prod of his instincts.

  He wanted to see Sylvia—purely to assure himself that she was all right. Given he really wasn’t sure what might be evolving between them, he shouldn’t be over-attentive. He shouldn’t hover. Much as he wished to.

  She’d lived in Bristol for two years without his protection; this was her city more than his.

  Yet...

  By dint of a significant exercise of will, he forced himself to concentrate on what should be uppermost in his mind—namely, the business of Cavanaugh Yachts.

  Regardless of who had broken in, that person or persons had intended harm. They’d damaged the business, albeit in a relatively minor way, but there was no reason to believe they would stop there.

  By the end of the day, when Kit watched Wayland and Mulligan lock the workshop up tight, heavy chain, padlock, and all, then parted from them and headed for Queen Square and a hackney to ferry him home, he’d come to the conclusion that it was time he met the Stenshaw lads.

  * * *

  As midnight approached, Kit and Smiggs stood hunched into their coats in the alley that ran down the side of the Cockle and Crake, a seedy dockside watering hole. They were waiting for the Stenshaw lads to decide it was time to stagger home.

  Having learned from Ollie that Cedric and James Stenshaw frequently slipped out of their mother’s house late at night—when she thought them safely tucked up in their beds—to visit some tavern, Kit and Smiggs had been lurking in the shadows of Trinity Street when the Stenshaws had slipped out of the house.

  They’d tracked the pair here—no respectable tavern but a gathering place for the dregs of the docks. Smiggs had stuck his head through the door and confirmed the pair were there, sitting in a shadowy booth and downing pints of, in Smiggs’s words, “whatever piss this place is serving as ale.”

  That had been nearly an hour ago, and the cold had long ago seeped through Kit’s coat. Rather than his usual greatcoat, for the occasion he’d had Gordon find an older, more threadbare jacket, a caution he was now regretting.

  He blew on his hands.

  Then the door to the Cockle and Crake swung open, and on a gust of warmer air, two slight figures stumbled into the street.

  The Stenshaw lads were well away.

  Kit smiled wolfishly, then glanced at Smiggs, who nodded. Together, they stepped out of the alley and followed silently in the Stenshaw boys’ weaving wake.

  The youths were so drunk, they didn’t notice the larger men trailing them.

  As he’d arranged with Smiggs, Kit waited until the boys reached the runnel that ran down the side of their mother’s house.

  Then he and Smiggs pounced. They each caught one boy by the collar, hauling him up and back and slapping a gloved hand over his mouth to muffle any cry.

  Once he and Smiggs had the boys subdued—simply by twisting their collars until they were in danger of choking—Kit lowered his head and murmured, loud enough for both boys to hear, “You don’t want to rouse the household and have your mother see you like this.”

  Both boys froze.

  In the dimness, Kit smiled. “Good. Now, if you remain quiet and answer my questions truthfully, my friend and I might let you go without any further damage. Do you understand?”

  Above the gloves covering half their faces, both boys’ eyes showed white, and they quickly nodded.

  “Right, then.” Kit eased his hand from the face of the boy he held, and the youth sucked in a quick breath. But he made no sound beyond a faint, frightened whimper.

  “First,” Kit said, “you can tell me about the fire you set behind the school on Saturday.”

  He didn’t have to press; both boys immediately started gabbling about how it had been only a lark, and that they’d just thought to make their mother happy by getting the school to move, and much more in that vein. At no point did either boy think to deny they’d set and lit the fire.

  Once they ran down—by which time both were sniveling—Kit said, “Very well. Now, what about the break-in at the workshop on the Grove?”

  The boy facing him blinked at him uncomprehendingly, while the boy Ki
t held before him turned his head to frown in puzzlement at Kit. “What?”

  They weren’t that good actors; they weren’t acting at all.

  “We don’t know about any workshop,” came from the boy Smiggs held, while the boy Kit restrained blurted, “We haven’t been anywhere near the Grove.”

  Both boys’ eyes were wide; Kit could sense their welling panic, no doubt occasioned by his sudden switch to events unknown to them.

  Kit met Smiggs’s gaze, saw his longtime henchman fractionally shake his head, and inwardly sighed. He thought for a moment, then lightly shook the boy whose collar he held. “Have you been following the lady from the school, thinking to unnerve her?”

  All he received were puzzled blinks.

  Lips tightening, he persisted, “Someone has been following her. Was it you?”

  “No,” they chorused.

  The pair exchanged a look, then the one in Smiggs’s grip said, “We never thought of that.”

  “Don’t,” Kit advised, his tone promising instant and terrible retribution. He caught first one, then the other boy’s eyes. “In fact,” he went on, in that same chilling tone, “I would strongly recommend that you both give everything and everybody associated with the school a very wide berth. That includes the teachers, the pupils, and anyone who visits. Should I find you’ve approached or interfered in any way—caused any problem at all, even from a distance—I’ll be back, and next time, I’ll bring the constable with me.” He’d kept his voice low throughout. He paused, then demanded, “Is that clear?”

  The boys swallowed, bobbed their heads, and chorused, “Yes, sir. Quite clear.”

  It seemed neither boy had realized who, exactly, had bailed them up. Kit wasn’t about to enlighten them. He released his hold on the collar of the youth he’d held, and Smiggs did the same with his brother.

  “I suggest you get inside,” Kit murmured, and both boys fled down the runnel.

  Kit met Smiggs’s gaze and tipped his head toward the street. He followed Smiggs out of the confined space, and they started walking toward the river.

  Eventually, Smiggs offered, “It wasn’t them—not at your workshop and not following the lady.”

  “No.” Kit had really hoped that the Stenshaws were responsible, that the reasons behind the sudden rash of problems would be that obvious and easy to deal with. Now...

  They reached the Butts and found a hackney forlornly idling. Smiggs hailed it, and they climbed up and slumped on the seat as the carriage rattled slowly north and west toward Kit’s house on Queen’s Parade.

  He stared unseeing at the passing streetscapes. If not the Stenshaw lads, then who?

  Who for the warehouse? Who for stalking Sylvia?

  Two separate people? Or were the two actions parts of one man’s plan?

  Kit turned those questions over in his mind, but could discern no route via which to learn the answers.

  Stymied, he shifted to considering why—what reason could anyone have for either action?

  No answer to that shone in his mind, either, but the realization that, as far as he knew, he was the only link between the workshop and Sylvia left him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The thought that he might be the reason she was being stalked chilled him. Yet he couldn’t for the life of him think of anyone who wished him ill—not to the extent of damaging a build and stalking an innocent lady simply because he’d been seen with her.

  When it came to it, he didn’t have business competitors, not in Bristol and not even in England, not for the type of yachts he and Wayland were building. If they’d been in France, it would be a different matter, but this was Bristol, not Le Havre or Marseilles.

  As the hackney rattled on through the night, Kit found himself facing the single fact that most contributed to his welling uneasiness. Regarding the break-in at the warehouse and Sylvia being stalked, he didn’t know what to think—and, therefore, had no clue how to act.

  For someone of his temperament, that was worse than wearing a hair shirt.

  * * *

  The next morning, Kit forced himself not to hunt down Sylvia—he had no reason to; what excuse could he give?—and, instead, turned up at the workshop, hoping to lose himself in helping with the work, enough, at least, to get his mind off the futile track it had been treading for the better part of the night.

  The men were already busy adding the ribs of the hull to the solid structure that now surrounded the bilge board. Before Kit could join them, Wayland hailed him and beckoned him to join him in the new design office.

  Kit found his friend ears deep in sketches.

  For the next several hours, he worked alongside Wayland in selecting those design elements they felt would best serve to set the yachts they built apart from all others.

  “As our aim is to make ocean-going yachts people will beat a path to our door to purchase, we need to make them special,” Wayland said, repeating the mantra they’d decided on when he’d agreed to come back to England and become a partner in Cavanaugh Yachts.

  Wayland proceeded to present his next amazing idea—which Kit pointed out would surely make the ship too heavy and unbalanced as well.

  “Ah.” Wayland stared at his diagram for several silent moments, then set it aside and picked up the next.

  They’d always worked like this, with Wayland spouting ideas left and right, and Kit picking those that might work and cutting and trimming them to fit.

  Hours passed. It was late morning when Mulligan propped his bulk in the doorway of the design office. When Kit and Wayland looked up, directing inquiring looks Mulligan’s way, he nodded at Kit. “Man here to see you.”

  Kit straightened. “Any idea who?”

  Mulligan hesitated.

  Kit’s instincts pricked. “What?”

  Mulligan shifted farther into the office, then said, “His name’s Bill Johnson. He says he’s not here about a job, and I believe him because the daft beggar is too proud to ask.” Mulligan crossed his beefy arms across his chest. “I didn’t know he was still in Bristol, or I’d have suggested you hire him earlier, when we were taking on men. Like I said, he’s too proud for his own good, but he’s a right handy man to have in a workshop, even though he has no skills. He’s a lifter, see? He’s good at moving and positioning things, then holding them in place while we work around him. Lots of bits in ship work are long and clumsy—Bill can easily handle them all. Us older men all know him and trust him to do things right. It really helps move things along to have a man like him working alongside us.”

  Kit nodded. “You’ve made a good case. I take it you and the others wouldn’t be averse if I offered this Johnson a position here.”

  Mulligan flashed him a grin. “You’ve got the gist of it.” He tipped his head toward the workshop doors. “But I’ve no idea what he wants with you.”

  With a glance at Wayland, Kit tossed the sketch he’d been studying on the table. “In that case, best I come and see.”

  Mulligan returned to the men about the hull that was taking shape in the first bay of the three they’d set up in the workshop.

  Kit walked to where a large, hefty, obviously very strong man stood waiting to one side of the open doors, incongruously twisting his cloth cap between his massive hands. Kit halted in the doorway and nodded. “I understand you wish to speak with me.”

  Johnson bobbed his huge head. “Yes, sir, your lordship.” He moistened his lips, then blurted, “I’ve seen you at the school, and I’ve come to ask if you’ll use your influence to get them at the school to stop teaching my nipper.”

  Kit blinked several times as he took that in. Of all the things he might have imagined being asked, that wasn’t even on the list. “You want me to ask the school to stop teaching your boy...” He focused on Johnson. “What’s the lad’s name?”

  “Ned. He’s Ned.” Johnson c
ontinued to wring his cap. His earnest, almost-desperate expression left Kit in no doubt that whatever his reasoning, Johnson’s request was sincere.

  Puzzled and curious—and faintly concerned, for this was the first he’d heard of any parent being unhappy over their son attending the school—Kit turned and glanced into Miss Petty’s office to discover that two desks and chairs had appeared that morning. He looked back at Johnson and waved to the office. “You’d better come in and tell me what the problem is.”

  The big man was reluctant, but Kit gave him little choice, ushering him in and closing the door behind them. Then he waved Johnson to one of the chairs and drew the other to him and sat.

  He waited while Johnson gingerly lowered his massive frame onto the rather small chair. Once he had, Kit fixed him with a commanding but unthreatening gaze. “Right, then. Tell me why you want the school to stop teaching Ned.” As he said the words, Kit realized their oddity. Why couldn’t Johnson simply stop his boy from attending?

  It took more than half an hour of carefully probing questions and considerable patience to tease the full tale from Johnson, but finally, Kit felt he had it straight.

  The problem centered on Johnson’s fear that, once educated, Ned wouldn’t want anything to do with his father. That fear was compounded by the fact that, at the present time, Ned wasn’t living with Johnson but with Johnson’s sister-in-law.

  Johnson finally relaxed enough to explain, “I lost my Myra shortly after Ned was born, see, and then I lost my job when the big shipyards moved down to Avonmouth. I couldn’t pay the rent after that, and so I had to move to one of the working men’s hostels. That was no place for Ned—and that’s when Cora, Myra’s sister, took Ned in.” Johnson swiped his cap across his mouth and, almost in a whisper, went on, “I might get work if I move to Avonmouth, but I don’t want to leave Ned behind.” The big man met Kit’s gaze, his own full of quiet anguish. “He’s all I have left.”

  Kit nodded. “I understand.” And he did; Johnson’s devotion to his son was written all over his homely face.