“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Annabel Lake. I’d like to see Mrs. Hester Plumtree, if you please.”
Alarm spread over his features. “Dear me, you mustn’t. That is, you can’t. It’s impossible. She’s unavailable.”
“How could she be unavailable?” Annabel knew a dodge when she saw one. Beyond him was only one door. It had to be Mrs. Plumtree’s, and since the clerk hadn’t said she was out, the woman must be closeted in there, avoiding visitors. “I heard she’s here from dawn to dusk every day, and it’s not quite three.”
He blinked, clearly thrown off guard. “Well, yes … that is true, but not today. You must leave. No one is allowed in. No one. Leave your name and where you can be reached, and when she becomes available once more—”
“How long will that be?”
Sheer panic crossed his face. “How should I know?” He wrung his hands, casting a nervous glance at the door. What a strange little man.
She softened her tone, attempting to put him at his ease. “Please, it’s very important that I speak with her.”
“No, no, no, no, no … It’s out of the question. Quite entirely out of the question. Not allowed. She is … I mean … You simply must go!” He came around the desk as if to escort her out.
Annabel hadn’t come all this way just to be tossed from the office by some odd clerk. Before the man could react, she darted around the desk the other way and rushed through the door into the office beyond.
The person behind the massive mahogany desk was decidedly not an aging woman. A man sat there, a young man about her age or slightly older, with raven hair and handsome features.
“Who the devil are you?” she burst out.
Leaning back in his chair, he laughed. “I rather think that should be my line.”
The clerk rushed in to grab her arm. “My lord, forgive me.” He tried to tug her toward the door. “Beg pardon, but I don’t know why the young lady—”
“Let her go, Croft.” The man stood, his eyes still glinting with amusement. “I’ll take it from here.”
“But my lord, you said no one is to know that your grandmother—”
“It’s all right. I’ll handle it.”
“Oh.” Two spots of color deepened in the clerk’s cheeks. “Of course. Well then. If you think it’s safe.”
The man chuckled. “If she bites or sets fire to my desk, Croft, you’ll be the first person I call.”
Croft released her arm. “There you go, miss. Talk to his lordship. He’ll take care of you.” Then he slid from the room, leaving her alone with what could only be one of Hester Plumtree’s grandsons.
Oh, dear. Annabel had heard about the outrageous Sharpe men from Sissy, who’d never met a gossip rag she didn’t like. When the man strode for the door, shutting it firmly behind her, she felt a moment’s panic—especially when he returned to give her a thorough once-over.
She wished her day gown didn’t shriek of last year’s fashions, but it couldn’t be helped. Times were lean in the Lake family. She’d rather not waste her funds on clothes when she could save toward a good school for Geordie, since Sissy and Hugh clearly couldn’t afford one.
Which of the infamous Sharpes was he? The madcap youngest grandson, Lord Gabriel, whom people called the Angel of Death for his reckless horse racing and all-black attire? No, for this man wore a waistcoat of buff velvet beneath his dark blue coat.
Might he be the eldest, the notorious rakehell? Not him, either—Sissy had just this morning read to her the news that the Marquess of Stoneville was honeymooning in America with his new wife.
That left only the middle grandson, whose name she couldn’t recall. He was a gambler and probably a devilish rogue like his brothers. No man could have the features of Michelangelo’s David without attracting a great many women. And those unearthly eyes—they seemed to change from a gorgeous blue to an equally gorgeous green with every trick of the light. Men as handsome as that quickly learned that they could take advantage of their good looks whenever they wished. Hence the roguery.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Croft,” he said in a low rumble, leaning against the desk’s cluttered surface. “Gran has trained him to hold off intrusions at all costs, Mrs.…”
“Miss,” she corrected him automatically. When a wolfish smile tugged at his full lips, she fought the sudden shiver coursing down her spine. “Miss Annabel Lake. I’m a brewster, Lord …”
“Jarret. Jarret Sharpe.” His face had stiffened.
That wasn’t unusual, she thought cynically. The men running the large breweries seemed to have nothing but contempt for female brewers. That was why she’d come to Mrs. Plumtree in the first place—so she wouldn’t be brushed off.
“I suppose you’re here looking for a position,” he said coldly. “My grandmother must have sent you.”
“What? No! Why would she send me? I don’t even know her.”
He eyed her warily. “Forgive me. Brewsters are rare enough these days, but young, unmarried, and pretty ones … Well, I just assumed that Gran was up to her tricks again.”
“Tricks?”
“Never mind. Not important.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but if I might speak to Mrs. Plumtree—”
“That’s not possible. At present, she’s … unavailable.”
Annabel was rapidly growing to hate that word. “But surely she’ll return soon?”
At the hopeful note in her voice, he gentled his expression. “Not for some time. She’s spending the next year dealing with family concerns.”
A year! By the time a year had passed, the creditors could be hauling away Lake Ale piece by piece.
He must have sensed her distress, for he added, “But she left me in charge, so perhaps I can help you.”
Him? What was his grandmother thinking? How could a woman whose business acumen was legendary hand over her business to a scapegrace?
Annabel surveyed him, trying to determine his reliability. For a gentleman given to sedentary pursuits, he filled out his coat and trousers very well. But what man wore superfine to a brewery?
A man who knew nothing about the business, that’s who. A man who probably dabbled in it to amuse himself, which meant he was of little use to her. Still, what choice did she have? He was in charge. And she and Sissy had come all this way.
Steadying her nerves, she held up her box. “I’m here on behalf of my ill brother to propose a business venture.”
He arched one finely groomed black eyebrow. “What sort of business venture? And who is your brother?”
“Hugh Lake. He owns Lake Ale in—”
“Burton-upon-Trent. Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
She blinked. “You have?”
Leaning back, he thumbed through a stack of papers until he found one with scribbled notes. “Your father, Aloysius Lake, founded it in 1794, and your brother inherited it a few years ago when your father died. Your specialties are brown ale, porter, and small beer.” When he glanced up to find her gaping at him, he said, “I do try to know something about our competition.”
So he wasn’t just a pretty face, after all. “Actually, I’m here because Lake Ale would rather be your business associate than your competitor.”
With a dubious expression, he crossed his arms over his rather impressive chest. “According to my information, Lake Ale only produces fifty thousand barrels a year to Plumtree’s two hundred fifty thousand. I fail to see what you can do for us.”
She wasn’t sure which shocked her more—that he knew Lake Ale’s level of production, or that he spoke to her like an equal. It was gratifying not to have him suggest that she trot on home and get her brother. Then again, given his grandmother, he was probably used to women knowing such matters.
“Before I explain, I wish for you to sample something.” Setting the box on his desk, she withdrew its precious cargo—a bottle of ale and a glass. She uncorked the ale and filled the glass halfway, careful not to put too much head on it.
When s
he offered it to him, he eyed her askance. “Thinking of poisoning the competition?”
She laughed. “Hardly. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll drink some first.” She sipped, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. There was no mistaking the glint in his eyes when he followed her tongue as it swept the foam off her lips.
“Your turn,” she said coldly. She thrust the glass at him, half expecting him to make some naughty comment about her mouth before progressing toward suggestions that had nothing to do with brewing.
Instead, he held up the glass to scrutinize the amber liquid. “It’s a pale ale?”
“Yes, an October brew.”
“Ah. Nice orange-gold color.” He swirled it in the glass, then thrust his nose into the scent, breathing deeply. “Aggressive aroma of hops. Some fruity notes.”
While he sipped it, she twisted her mother’s ring on her finger. It had always brought her good luck, which was why she never took it off, even at the brewery.
His eyes deepened to a cobalt blue as he let the ale lie in his mouth a brief second before swallowing. He sipped again, as if to confirm his impressions.
Then he drained the glass. “It’s quite good. Full-bodied, with a nice bitter finish. Not too much malt, either. Some of Lake Ale’s stock?”
She let out a relieved breath. “Yes. I brewed it myself.”
He straightened to his full height, which was considerable compared to her own five foot one. “I still don’t see how this concerns Plumtree.”
“I want you to help me sell it.”
With his manner all business again, he handed the glass to her. “I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lake. This isn’t the time for new ventures in the ale business. With the Russian market going soft—”
“That’s precisely why I’m here. With my brother ill, we, too, have been having difficulties. But I can help both our companies make up for the loss of the Russians.” She packed the glass in her box, leaving the ale bottle on the desk. “You’ve heard of Hodgson’s Brewery?”
“Of course. He dominates the India trade.”
“Not since he joined up with Thomas Drane. They decided to cut out the East India Company by shipping it directly there themselves.”
His eyes widened. “Idiots.”
“Exactly. No one takes on the Company and wins.” Though the Company profited from the Indian goods brought to England, it allowed its captains to profit from goods they brought out to India and sold to Englishmen there. Ale had become the captains’ primary private cargo, specifically the October ale brewed by Hodgson’s. The brewery had thought to cut out the captains and was now suffering for it.
“Hodgson’s has also stopped giving credit and raised its prices,” she went on. “So the East India Company captains decided to cut out Hodgson’s by finding a brewer to brew his sort of ale for them. They fixed on Allsopp’s in Burton. His first shipment went out two years ago, and they’ve received nothing but glowing reports. It’s a huge market that Lake Ale wants to get into. But we need help.”
“My grandmother tried to compete in the India market years ago unsuccessfully.”
“She was trying to sell Plumtree’s October brew, right?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“We’ve discovered that Burton water produces a better October brew than London water. Allsopp is putting half his export production into India pale ale. I could do the same if the East India Company captains would deal with Lake Ale, but they won’t, because of my brother’s”—she stopped just short of saying “unreliability”—“illness. And because I’m a woman. They don’t trust us to come through, and I don’t dare put it into production if they don’t buy it. That’s why I need you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You want me to sell your ale to the Company captains.”
She beamed at him. “Exactly. It could be advantageous for us both, compensating us for the losses we’ve both suffered ever since the Russians raised the tariffs on English ale.”
“What makes you think we’ve suffered losses?” he drawled.
“Every brewery has suffered losses, and you know it.”
Glancing away, he rubbed his hand over his chin. “It’s an intriguing proposal.”
“Then you’ll consider it?”
His gaze met hers, full of regret. “No.”
Her heart sank. Plumtree Brewery had been her only hope! “Why not?”
“For one thing, I’ve only been here a week, and I’m still assessing the situation. So I’m not going to launch into some foolhardy experiment, and certainly not just because a young brewster has a harebrained scheme—”
“It’s not a harebrained scheme!” And at nearly thirty, she wasn’t all that young. That was the trouble with being short—it misled people about one’s age. “Ask anyone about Allsopp’s success. I’m sure other London brewers have noticed. And I brew an excellent October beer—you admitted as much yourself !”
“There’s more to it than that,” he said in that patronizing tone she’d become so familiar with in dealing with the male brewery owners in Burton.
She thrust out her chin. “You mean, because I’m a woman.”
“Because you’re a brewer. Brewers look no further than their noses. They create a superior brew, and they think that’s all it requires. But there are factors beyond the ale’s quality. I’m sure your brother realizes that, which is why he didn’t come himself.”
“He didn’t come because he’s ill!” she cried.
“Then surely he sent a letter of introduction, putting you forward as his representative.”
She swallowed. Of course he hadn’t. Hugh thought that she and Sissy were in London to look at schools for Geordie. “He was too ill for that.”
Lord Jarret merely arched an eyebrow.
Exasperated, she tried another tack. “For a man who gambles a great deal, you’re certainly cautious about investing.”
The corners of his lips twitched. “I see that my reputation precedes me.”
“When you spend your time scandalizing society, you must expect people to talk about you. Though I can’t imagine why. If you balk at a sure investment like this, you can’t be too reckless or brave a gambler.”
To her vast annoyance, a smile broke over his face, exposing not one, but two dimples in his cheeks. “My dear Miss Lake, such tactics may work on your hapless brother, but I have two sisters of my own. I can’t be goaded quite so easily. Sticks and stones and all that.”
Curse him for being such a … a man. “Your grandmother would see the profit to be made from this plan. Your grandmother would understand.”
The smile vanished. He stepped closer to loom over her, all six feet of him. “My grandmother isn’t running this company at present. But even so, I doubt she’d approve.”
She fought not to be intimidated by his sheer size. “How do you know, if you don’t ask her?”
“I don’t need to ask her.”
“You just said you’ve only been here a week, and you’re still sorting through things.” She tried to stare him down, but his height made it more like staring him up. “You could be wrong about this, you know. I’d at least like to hear from her that Plumtree Brewery isn’t interested.”
“That’s impossible. At the moment, she is—”
“Unavailable. I know. How convenient.” She glared at him. “You ignore a perfectly good opportunity to make money because you can’t be bothered. I wonder what your grandmother would think if she heard of it.”
“Threats don’t work on me either, Miss Lake. Now if you’ll excuse me …”
When he headed for the door, panic seized her. “Lake Ale is in a precarious position,” she called out, “and all I ask is that you present my proposal to your grandmother. Why is that so difficult? If Lake Ale fails, forty men will lose their employment. My family will suffer, and—”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He whirled to face her. “Will you be satisfied if I speak to my grandmother about your proposal?”
&n
bsp; Hope sprang within her. “Yes. Though it might be better if I—”
“Not a chance. I’ll present the idea tonight. But when she refuses to pursue it—as I’m sure she will—you’ll accept that answer as final. Is that understood?”
She hesitated, then nodded. Really, he gave her little choice.
He swung the door open. “Come back tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you what she said. Good day, Miss Lake.”
She bit down on her lip to keep from protesting his cursory dismissal. This was the best she would get from him; now she simply had to hope that he did as he promised.
As she descended the stairs, however, she wasn’t at all sure that he would. He seemed determined to dismiss her plan. Why, he hadn’t even heard about the disastrous situation with Hodgson’s! He probably thought she was exaggerating the whole thing.
But if he spoke to his grandmother, he would learn …
She sighed. That was a very great if.
Outside the brewery, she found Sissy and Geordie waiting on the steps for her. Sissy leaped up the moment Annabel approached, the hood of her cloak falling down to expose her pretty blond curls.
“Well?” she asked hopefully. “What did Mrs. Plumtree say?”
Annabel sighed. “She wasn’t there. I spoke to her grandson.”
“You met one of the famous Hellions of Halstead Hall?” Sissy’s blue eyes lit with excitement. “Which one?”
“Lord Jarret.”
“The gambler? Is he as handsome as they say? Did he have a look of dissipation about him?”
“Come to think of it, no.” That was odd, given the scandalous stories told about him—how he’d once gambled for two days straight without sleeping, how he’d lost a thousand pounds in a single hour … how he changed women as often as he changed his drawers.
That wasn’t surprising, when he had eyes the color of the ocean and a lazy smile meant to make a woman shiver. Not that it did that to her. No indeed.
“Lord Jarret had a look of roguery about him,” Annabel said stoutly.
“Then why on earth is his grandmother letting him run her brewery?”
“Because he’s a man, of course. He gave me little hope of her being interested in my proposal, though he did promise to speak to her about it.”
A Hellion in Her Bed Page 3
