The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  They covered the distance to her office with both of them smiling—in her case, with her habitual serenity, in his, rather inanely.

  He escorted her to her office and, propping his shoulder against the door frame, watched as she tidied papers and files away.

  Sylvia hoped she was putting things away in the right places. She was operating entirely by rote, her mind scrambling to adjust to a reality that, despite their recent equable interactions, she hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate.

  Going to a public concert with Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Walking into the Council House hall on his arm, beneath the interested eyes of the cream of local society...

  Did he realize that was what it would be like? Did he have any inkling how local society would interpret such a sighting?

  She ducked her head, swallowing the scoffing sound she’d nearly given vent to. Of course, he realized. He might not be the rakehell she’d imagined him, but he’d been raised within the ton. He understood the nuances of social behavior very likely better than she did.

  Almost certainly better than she did...

  Him asking her to accompany him did mean what she thought it meant, didn’t it?

  For a second, uncertainty rose and shook her, then she realized she was merely giddy.

  Hardly surprising when a situation she’d fantasized about—admittedly with a very different imaginary man—was on the cusp of coming true. And with a gentleman who was much more to her taste than her imaginary lord had ever been.

  Placing a stack of papers in her bottom drawer, she glanced at her desktop and found it cleared. She drew in a deep breath and straightened. She had to get a grip on her wayward senses before she did something truly foolish—like smile at him with stars in her eyes.

  She looked at him and smiled—and fought to ensure it was an appropriate expression rather than one too revealing. “There’s nothing more I need to do here.” She picked up her reticule and walked toward the door.

  He watched her approach, then stepped back and waved her into the corridor. “In that case, I’ll escort you wherever you intend to go.”

  She had intended to pick up some laundry, but that seemed far too mundane an activity to do with him by her side.

  They stepped onto the pavement of Broad Street, and he offered her his arm. She took it, feeling steel beneath her fingertips, then hesitated.

  He glanced at her face. “Your lodgings?”

  She nodded. “But that’s in the opposite direction to your house.” She lowered her lids and watched his face through her lashes. “You don’t have to escort me all the way there, you know.” She’d been walking the streets of Bristol for the past two years without incident; she had very little fear of the areas she had to traverse.

  He started them strolling toward the nearby intersection with Wine Street. His expression was unperturbed as he replied, “I do, as it happens—both know that and yet have to escort you to your door.”

  Her lips curved more deeply, and she looked ahead. After a moment, she murmured, “Ah—I see.”

  He steered her across the busy intersection, and they continued down High Street.

  Somewhat sternly, she told herself not to read too much into what he very likely saw as common courtesy. Or at least the sort of gentlemanly attention he would bestow on any lady he knew were she to set out to cross a city the likes of Bristol.

  Still, it was impossible not to feel a fillip of happiness that he was willing to go so far out of his way to see her safely home.

  Her pleasant mood made the icy chill that slithered across her nape all the more noticeable. She tensed, then quickly looked around.

  “What is it?” Kit halted, every instinct on high alert. He scanned the crowds behind them—a bustling throng jostling along the pavements of Corn Street to the left and Wine Street to the right, with people dodging and weaving through the equally strong flow of pedestrians going up and down Broad and High Streets. “The watcher?”

  “Yes.” Sylvia’s tone was quietly furious. “And whoever he is, he’s a coward—as soon as I look, he stops.”

  Kit drew her to the side of the pavement, putting their backs to the building while he searched the scurrying sea of humanity.

  Beside him, Sylvia, doing the same, huffed disgruntledly. “There’s so many people, yet not one of them looks out of place.”

  He had to agree. There were businessmen of all stripes as well as hawkers of this and that, a chestnut vendor, and the ubiquitous men carrying placards advertising one or other chapel. There were messenger boys darting in and out, weaving their way through the throng, and older women as well as girls trudging home after working as shop assistants or the like.

  After a moment more of fruitless searching, Kit closed his hand over Sylvia’s, now gripping his arm. “Come. Let’s walk on.”

  She nodded tersely and settled into step beside him. “Maybe he’ll follow us, and we’ll get a better sighting in the less-populated streets.”

  He glanced at her. “Tell me the instant you sense him, but don’t stop or look around.”

  Briefly, she met his eyes and nodded.

  They remained on high alert all the way to Mrs. Macintyre’s house. As they approached the gate, in response to Kit’s inquiring look, her lips tight, Sylvia shook her head. “Nothing. He didn’t follow.”

  Kit escorted her up the steps to the porch and waited while she hunted in her reticule and found her latchkey. She inserted it into the lock, then paused and looked up at him. “Thank you. It was less...bothersome because you were with me.”

  She couldn’t have said anything better designed to soothe his flaring instincts.

  He searched her eyes, then stated, “Obviously, your watcher isn’t Bill Johnson.”

  “No.”

  “And I doubt it was the Stenshaw lads, either.” He paused, then admitted, “My groom, Smiggs, and I caught up with the Stenshaws on Tuesday night. I wanted to make sure they hadn’t been behind the sabotage at the warehouse. But I seriously doubt they had any involvement in that incident, nor had they been watching you.”

  She sighed, her gaze going past him to the street. “I wonder who it is—and even more importantly, why? A clergyman’s daughter already on the shelf is hardly an attractive target for abduction and ransom.”

  He nearly disputed her description of herself, but decided how he saw her wasn’t germane to the discussion.

  He debated doing something to appease his clawing instincts—such as demanding she allow him to escort her everywhere—but that, he felt sure, would put her back up. He was forced to settle for capturing her gaze and saying, “Please promise me you’ll take care when out walking and that you won’t venture out at night alone or anything similar.”

  The look she bent on him was the same long-suffering, “don’t be foolish” look he’d seen Mary bestow on Ryder times beyond counting.

  “Of course, I won’t do anything senseless. Besides,” she said, finally turning the key, “I have no nighttime excursions planned other than Friday’s concert with you.”

  The reminder of that event improved his mood considerably. Enough for him to share a last smile with her and bow gracefully in farewell. He waited on the step until she was inside and had closed the door, then swung around and strode quickly down the path and along the pavement to where he’d seen a hackney idling.

  After hailing it, he climbed up and dropped onto the seat. As the jarvey turned his horse toward Queen’s Parade, Kit frowned into the softly gathering twilight.

  Could the person who was watching Sylvia with malignant intent be somehow connected to the break-in at the workshop? No matter how he twisted the facts, he couldn’t dismiss the possibility.

  As the hackney rattled on, Kit found himself facing the disturbing prospect that the reason behind Sylvia being watched might have more to do with him than her.

 
* * *

  After eating a solitary dinner in a dining room that, courtesy of Gordon’s efforts, was starting to look like a dining room and no longer part of an empty house, Kit adjourned to his study.

  Along with his bedroom, the study had been one of the first rooms to be completely furnished. Kit crossed to the tantalus, poured himself a good inch of French brandy, then sank into one of the comfortable wing chairs angled before the hearth.

  Every now and then—usually every month or so—past experience prodded him to stop and take stock. To retreat to an appropriate mental distance and review what he’d accomplished and what he planned to do next, the better to keep his feet firmly on the most direct path to his ultimate goal.

  The activity had become habit in the years during which circumstances had forced him to live under his mother’s thumb, subject to her manipulative whims. Of Lavinia’s four children, he’d been the least susceptible to her ploys; he’d quickly learned to plot and plan so she had as little chance as possible to dictate his actions. The other three—Rand, Stacie, and Godfrey—had been aware of Lavinia’s machinations and her interference in their lives, but although Rand, too, had resisted, the other two had had a harder time of it, Stacie especially.

  Kit sipped and felt the fiery amber liquid slide smoothly down his throat. He hadn’t sat down intending to become mired in the past, yet...

  Since Lavinia’s death six years ago, he’d been drifting, both physically and emotionally. Flitting here, then there, not settling anywhere.

  Until now.

  He considered that reality—the past from which he’d come—then took another larger sip of brandy and firmly turned his mind to his present.

  To Cavanaugh Yachts and the progress made over the past two weeks.

  When he’d driven into Bristol, Cavanaugh Yachts had been nothing more than a name and a concept—and a lot of hopes. Eleven days on, and Cavanaugh Yachts was a going concern, with suitable premises, a workforce more able than he and Wayland could have hoped to assemble so quickly, and despite the attempted sabotage, they had a first hull taking shape.

  There was nothing in that with which to quibble. Satisfaction welled. They’d done well, laid a solid foundation, and could go forward from there.

  Their next step? Orders. With luck, their sign would be up within the week. Once it was, he would start spreading word of their existence, yet realistically, until they had their first yacht completed and on the water, wise buyers would hang back.

  He and Wayland had agreed that their first hull should remain the property of the company, a showpiece on which to take prospective buyers out on the waves. He would buy the second yacht they built, Wayland would take the third, and Ryder and Rand were going to go in together to purchase the fourth. That would give the company enough work to see them well into the new year. After that was when having a steady stream of orders would become essential.

  There was little he could do in terms of securing further orders at present. Better he spent his time working with Wayland and the men to ensure their first yacht was as perfect as they could make it.

  With that settled, he shifted his focus to the other side of his life—to home and hearth. His house was his, and his small household was taking shape nicely. The staff worked efficiently and had knitted into a comfortable core of mutual support; he deemed no adjustments to be necessary. However, Gordon and Smiggs had started dropping hints that they needed to hire a housekeeper, yet that was one selection neither felt capable of making—and Kit boggled at doing so himself.

  Hiring housekeepers, maids, and the like was the province of the lady of the house—a position that, in this house, was currently vacant.

  He shifted in the chair and sipped again. He hadn’t consciously considered marrying for a very long time. Not since his mother and her machinations had turned him off the entire concept, tarnishing the ideal to such an extent that he and all in him had revolted and rebelled.

  But Lavinia was six years dead, and her effect on him had faded along with his memories of her interference.

  Ryder had married, yet he’d never truly been under Lavinia’s influence so hadn’t had the same hurdles to overcome. But now Rand had found love, too. From all Kit had seen of them and their wives, Ryder and Rand were both now living the ideal he’d thought would be forever denied all Lavinia’s children.

  Clearly, his assumption had proved false.

  So what about him?

  He eyed the amber liquid in his glass, then swirled it and sipped—and admitted to himself that he was definitely considering marrying now. Not only did it seem to be time, but he’d discovered a lady who attracted him as no other ever had—on multiple planes and in multiple ways.

  Inviting Sylvia to attend the concert with him hadn’t been any rashly impulsive act. He’d hunted for the right place to take her—one that would advance his cause by making it clear that he was courting her.

  That he was intent on wooing and winning her.

  He had no recollection of when he’d made that decision, if he’d made it at all.

  He’d been attracted to her from the first moment he’d seen her at Rand and Felicia’s wedding, but her off-putting behavior had all but immediately soured his mood. At the end of the day, he’d turned his back and driven away and hadn’t expected to meet her again.

  In truth, he hadn’t. The Sylvia who had stormed into his office just over a week ago was a completely different lady.

  A completely different prospect.

  They’d been in and out of each other’s company ever since. They’d worked together to achieve minor goals that advanced her, his, and oft-times both their current aims.

  They’d formed an effective alliance in dealing with threats and steadily advancing their now-mutual goals to the extent that he now longed for her company, and she didn’t seem at all averse to his.

  He wanted to bring that alliance home and establish it here—at the center of his private life.

  Leaning his head back against the chair, he stared unseeing at the ceiling.

  Even without closing his eyes, he could imagine her sitting in the chair across from him, perhaps working on some list or reading a novel.

  She would fit into his household effortlessly. She understood people with much the same facility he did.

  In his estimation, she was the perfect candidate to fill his vacant position.

  His lips curved self-deprecatingly, and he raised the glass and sipped. A clergyman’s daughter—who would have thought it?

  Certainly not the racy matrons of the ton—those ladies who would invite him to their beds while doing their utmost to direct their daughters’ eyes elsewhere.

  He grinned at the thought of how those ladies would react were he successful in winning Sylvia’s hand.

  Mentally, he pulled himself up short. He was going to win her—there was no question about that.

  Again, he sipped, leaving only dregs. He wasn’t normally afflicted with self-doubt; that ran all but counter to his character. He was usually utterly confident in moving forward, assured that, even if something along the way went wrong, he would ultimately triumph.

  With Sylvia...uncertainty dogged him; he constantly felt as if he was feeling his way with her, never sure how she would react. With her, he felt like a green youth and not the experienced nobleman-about-town he most definitely was.

  His difficulty, he suspected, stemmed from two sources. Her attitude to him at the wedding had flummoxed him and still did; he had no idea why she’d treated him so dismissively and disdainfully. His reputation couldn’t have been the sole cause; she might have disapproved of him for that, but her aversion—the intensity of her antipathy—had to have sprung from some deeper motivation.

  Indeed, even after the revelations of that meeting in his office, if she hadn’t needed his help with the school, he doubted he would have got
closer to her; she would have held him at a distance, as she had at the wedding.

  The somewhat unnerving thought that she might, at any time, revert to viewing him as she previously had left him understandably wary.

  On top of that, he’d never interacted with a lady of her ilk before, not with any amorous intent. She was a very different proposition from ladies reared within the bosom of the ton. As their acquaintance deepened, that, more than any other factor, was what was undermining his native confidence and making him second-guess himself over every little step he thought to take.

  In short, the seduction of Sylvia Buckleberry would be a very different dance set to a very different beat than any seduction he’d undertaken before. When it came to capturing the affections of a clergyman’s daughter in Bristol, he had no experience to fall back on at all.

  She’d only just consented to take his arm and walk more definitely by his side.

  Somewhat grimly dwelling on that, he drained the last drops of brandy from his glass, then set it aside and pushed to his feet.

  In the matter of securing Sylvia Buckleberry as his wife, he had a long way to go.

  He was determined that their excursion on Friday night would significantly advance his cause.

  Turning down the lamp, he headed for the door—and his empty bed, which he fervently hoped would not remain empty for much longer.

  * * *

  The next morning, Kit walked into the workshop to see Wayland scowling at a heavy chain, examining the links he was passing between his hands.

  Kit focused on the chain and felt his hackles rise. It was the chain they’d used to secure the workshop doors. He halted beside Wayland. “Problem?”

  Grimly, Wayland said, “Some blighter tried to cut this. See?” He held up a thick iron link and pointed to the telltale scratches. “He failed. But...”

  Now equally grim, Kit nodded. “He tried. Therefore, he’ll return better equipped and try again.”

  Wayland sighed, lowered the chain, and met Kit’s gaze. “Whoever he is, he’s intent on causing us harm.” His brow furrowed. “I still can’t imagine who he could be.”