“Do you think he will?”
“I don’t know. He’s an annoying, arrogant fellow. I doubt he can be trusted to do anything. He acted as if I were imposing on him simply by suggesting a perfect way for his company to make money.”
“That’s because you shouldn’t have been telling him what to do, Aunt Annabel,” Geordie put in. “It’s like Father always says, women—”
“I know what your father always says.” That women didn’t belong in breweries. That if she’d stop going to the brewery, some man might actually marry her.
She heartily wished Hugh wouldn’t say such things in front of Geordie. Now the lad was taking up that cry himself, and Hugh knew why she didn’t wish to marry. Because she’d have to leave Geordie behind. And how could she ever do that?
He was her son.
Of course, Geordie didn’t know that. He didn’t know that Annabel’s fiancé, Rupert, had sired him or that Annabel had borne him shortly after Rupert had died in battle. Geordie had been raised believing she was his aunt. And there was nothing Annabel could do about that—not if he were to have a life free of the stigma of bastardy.
But she could certainly make sure he was loved and cared for, even if the woman he called Mother wasn’t her.
A sob clogged her throat, and she choked it down as always. Her son was growing up so quickly. One day, she and Sissy and Hugh would have to tell him the truth. When he was young, the three of them had thought it best to keep the secret quiet, for fear he would let it slip to someone. But lately Sissy had been saying they should tell him. That it was time.
It was time—she just couldn’t bear to do it. He would be so hurt when he realized that his whole life had been a lie, that his real father was dead and his real mother was a wanton. And then he would blame her, and she might lose him forever. She just couldn’t risk it. Not yet. Not until things were settled with Hugh.
A scowl touched her brow. What were they to do about Hugh? He got more hopeless by the day. The more melancholy he became, the more he drank and the less he cared what happened to the brewery. They’d hidden it so far, but eventually people would figure out that he missed so many days in the office and appointments with important vendors because he was drinking himself into a stupor in his study at home.
“You ought to listen to Father,” Geordie said in the pompous tone he’d adopted after turning twelve. “He’s only trying to help you get a husband before you get too old, you know.”
“Geordie!” Sissy chided. “Don’t be rude.”
“I don’t want a husband anyway, Geordie,” Annabel said wearily.
That was a bald-faced lie. She wanted a husband and children and a home of her own, like any other woman. But what man would have her once he knew she was no longer chaste? And even if some fellow were understanding about her youthful love for Rupert, he wouldn’t wish to take on her bastard. She’d have to leave Geordie behind, if only to spare him the cruelties of being branded illegitimate.
She couldn’t bear that.
And she had no desire to bring scandal down upon Sissy and Hugh; they’d been good to her. Some families would have abandoned her entirely for her … mistake.
“So what do we do now?” Sissy asked.
“We have no choice but to wait until tomorrow and see if Lord Jarret does as promised. Though I’d feel much better if I could speak to Mrs. Plumtree myself.”
“Why can’t you? Surely we could find out where she lives.”
“If only we could.” She thought through what Lord Jarret had said. “I’m not sure she’s at home, anyway. He said something about her dealing with family concerns. She might be anywhere.”
“Well, if he’s going to consult with her, he has to go to where she is, doesn’t he? We could just follow him.”
Annabel gaped at Sissy, then caught her up in a hug. “You’re brilliant! Yes, that’s what we must do. Or rather, what I must do. He’d surely notice three of us following him. He won’t notice one woman.”
“You should let me do it,” Geordie said, puffing out his chest.
“Absolutely not!” Sissy and Annabel said in unison. Then they laughed.
They’d always been in perfect accord when it came to Geordie. Annabel couldn’t have asked for a better mother for her son. Sissy and Hugh had their own children, too—who were currently with Sissy’s mother in Burton—but Sissy never treated Geordie any differently than she did the others.
Another woman might have resented having her sister-in-law’s by-blow foisted upon her a year after her wedding, but not Sissy. She’d dreamed up the ruse of telling everyone that she and Annabel were going north to help a cousin cope with a long-term illness. Sissy had even gone so far as to write letters back to town about the child she bore. Then she had embraced the babe with utter joy, welcoming the grieving Annabel into their family, too.
In return, Annabel had adopted the role of doting aunt, helping to look after the children when she wasn’t at the brewery trying to fill Hugh’s soggy shoes.
“Geordie,” Sissy said, ruffling the boy’s straight brown hair, “let’s leave this endeavor to Annabel, shall we?”
“Aww, Mother, stop that!” He shrugged off Sissy’s hand with a scowl. “I’m not a boy anymore, you know.”
“Oh, a big man now, is he?” Annabel teased.
“I am a man.” He scowled at them both. He had Rupert’s scowl. “Father says so.”
“Well then,” Annabel said, “you can take good care of your mother on the way back to the inn.” They were staying close by, thank heavens. “I’m remaining here.”
“Alone? Until after dark?” Sissy said, a hint of alarm in her voice.
“I’ll be fine. Lord Jarret will surely leave in a couple of hours—he isn’t exactly the diligent sort. There’s plenty of shops across the street that give me a good view of the brewery. I’ll dally in them until I see him come out.” When Sissy still looked worried, she added, “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“At least wear my cloak.” Sissy stripped it off and handed it to her. “Perhaps if you keep it buttoned, with the hood up over your head, no one will realize you’re a woman. You’re so short, it even covers the bottom of your skirts.”
At the very least, it would afford her some protection from the nippy air once the sun went down. “This may take me a while, you know,” she said as she removed her bonnet and gave it to Sissy, then donned the cloak. “Once I find out where Mrs. Plumtree is, I’ll have to get in to speak to her.”
“After you’re done, take a hackney back.” Sissy pressed some money into her hand, along with the extra key to the inn room. “Don’t even think about returning to the inn on foot.”
Annabel stared at the coins, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Sissy. I’m sorry that my brother—”
“Shh,” Sissy said softly. “It’s not your fault. Anyway, Hugh is a good man when he isn’t … in the doldrums.” She cast a furtive glance at Geordie, who was listening avidly as usual. “I’m sure you’ll be able to convince Mrs. Plumtree to help us. And if you can give a new purpose to Lake Ale, it may even jog Hugh out of his melancholy state.”
“We can only hope,” Annabel said as she slid the money and key into the cloak pocket.
That was their plan, meager as it was. Hugh had seemed interested in entering the India market every time she’d mentioned it, but he was too sunk in drink to pursue it. So she and Sissy hoped to present him with a fait accompli wherein Plumtree Brewery agreed to do the marketing. Perhaps then he’d rouse himself to carry the scheme to fruition. It ought to be enough to turn Lake Ale around, which could do nothing but raise Hugh’s spirits further.
They had the brewery manager’s blessing, and she still hoped to gain Mrs. Plumtree’s help, no matter what the woman’s arrogant grandson said.
She set her shoulders. She would gain the woman’s help, with or without Lord Jarret’s approval. Because it might be the only way to ensure her family’s survival.
Chapter Three
Jarret stared at the half-empty bottle of ale Miss Lake had left behind. Brewsters generally produced ale for their own taverns or families. To his knowledge, no woman other than Gran actually worked in the rough-and-ready atmosphere of a major brewery.
Was that why he’d let the chit’s talk of an ill brother get under his skin? He should have tossed her out the minute she mentioned involving Plumtree Brewery in her plans. Because damn if it didn’t tempt him. It was just the sort of high-risk venture that sparked his interest … and just the sort of high-risk venture he must avoid if he were to save the company from certain ruin.
With a heavy sigh, Jarret stared down at the numbers that had been plaguing him when Miss Lake first entered. Plumtree Brewery was in trouble. The Russian situation had lowered its profits dramatically, which explained why Gran had been desperate for someone to run the place.
This was no time for taking great risks with the company. While Miss Lake’s plan could stanch the loss of profits from the gaping wound dealt by the Russians, it could also provide the killing blow. He couldn’t chance it.
Still, assuming that Miss Lake hadn’t lied about brewing the ale herself, he had to admit she was good. He didn’t profess to be an expert, though—it had been a long time since he’d looked at ale as anything other than a drink to accompany his meal.
Grandfather had been the expert. Jarret flashed on an image of the old man setting piles of malt before him to teach Jarret how to know which roast produced which sort of ale. Grandfather used to let him add the yeast to the fermentation vats, saying that one day the whole place would be his. As a boy, that had made him swell with pride and yearning … until Gran had snatched it all away.
He scowled. Now he was here again, smelling the wort and tasting the green beer. Thanks to her, it was as if nineteen years had melted away to nothing. Except that he no longer wanted to sacrifice his life to the brewery.
“Croft!” he barked.
The clerk appeared instantly in the doorway. Gran had been right: Croft might be awkward with strangers and possess an odd manner, but he knew Plumtree Brewery inside and out.
“Would you send Mr. Harper up here?”
“Of course, my lord. And may I say again how sorry I am that I allowed that woman to get past me. I didn’t know what to tell her. You said not to let anyone know that Mrs. Plumtree is ill, and the woman kept asking questions—”
“It’s fine, Croft. Everything is well.” Gran had insisted that her illness be kept secret from all but her closest intimates. She didn’t want her competitors swarming over the company like vultures if they thought it was in a weakened state.
“And how is your grandmother doing, if I may ask?”
“She was holding her own when I left her last night,” Jarret evaded. But her color wasn’t good, and she coughed a great deal.
As Croft hurried off to fetch Harper, Jarret worried. He’d expected Gran to revert to her usual self after their agreement. Instead, she’d worsened over the past week. Dr. Wright said she suffered from something called edema of the lungs and might never recover.
The thought of Gran dying made something twist in his belly. She’d always been there, her energy and passion for the brewery making her larger than life. Even when she was fighting with them, she was the glue that held them together. If she died …
She mustn’t die. It was unthinkable.
“My lord? Mr. Croft said you wished to see me?”
He looked up to find Mr. Harper, the company’s finest brewer, standing there with hat in hand. Jarret gestured to the bottle of ale. “I’d like your opinion on that October brew, Harper. There’s a glass in the sideboard.”
Gran kept her store of brandy in there. A faint smile touched his lips. Mother had always been mortified by the fact that her mother drank brandy, a very unladylike thing to do. But Gran was unlike most women.
Except, perhaps, for Miss Lake.
He scowled. Miss Lake was not like Gran, else he wouldn’t have spent half their encounter wondering what lay beneath her outmoded gown of green wool. Short though she was, like a pixie venturing out from the forest, she had a woman’s shapely figure—all soft curves and cunning temptations. And the one time she’d smiled at him …
God, it had transformed her whole face, making her brown eyes sparkle and her lightly freckled cheeks flush. The dark curls that framed her face had hinted at the lush waves of shimmering mahogany that undoubtedly lay beneath her jaunty bonnet.
She had the look of a well-fed country lass untouched by the city’s foul stink. He liked earthy women, always had; he far preferred them to the elegant, gossipy bitches who populated society. Miss Lake was the sort of female he could imagine dancing around maypoles and walking with her beau on the village green. The sort who considered any flirtation a prelude to marriage.
That’s why he’d assumed that Gran had sent her. It was exactly something Gran would do—try to get him to hire some pretty female brewer in hopes that the woman would tempt him into marriage, so Gran could still get her way.
Miss Lake would certainly have been a good choice for such a plot. The minute she’d tipped up her pixie’s nose at him, he’d wanted to go exploring beneath that bonnet and gown. Confound it all.
“Well?” he snapped as Harper sipped the ale, then sipped again.
“It’s good. Better than most October brews I’ve tasted.”
“Damn,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Harper asked.
He didn’t want to have his opinion about the ale confirmed. He didn’t want to hear that Miss Lake had a viable brew to sell, that she could make a go of her scheme if only he would cooperate.
“Are you considering the India market?” Harper said, startling him.
“Why do you ask?”
Harper shrugged. “With Hodgson’s on the ropes and the Russians not buying, I’ve been thinking we should try our hand at a pale ale for the East India Company.” When Jarret just stared at him, annoyed that everyone in creation seemed to know about Hodgson’s but him, Harper added hastily, “I realize Mrs. Plumtree has been against it, but times are hard. It’s worth another look.”
“Tell me exactly what happened to Hodgson’s that made the East India Company unhappy.”
Harper explained a series of what sounded like unwise business practices to him, though he hadn’t been around long enough to be sure. Much as he hated to admit it, Miss Lake’s proposal sounded as if it had merit … if he could trust her company to produce what she promised, which was by no means certain.
“Could you produce an October ale as good as that?” Jarret asked, flicking one hand toward the nearly empty bottle Harper had placed on the desk.
Harper colored. “Don’t know as I could. That’s a damned fine brew. I’d have to know the recipe. But Hodgson’s wasn’t any better than ours. We’d still have a chance of competing, if they’re on the outs.”
Burton water produces a better October brew than London water.
Jarret stared at the few ounces left in the bottom. “Thank you for your opinion, Harper. That will be all.”
What did it matter if Miss Lake had produced an excellent ale for the India market? Just because she was moving to take advantage of Hodgson’s foolish mistakes didn’t mean he should risk all on her scheme.
If Lake Ale fails, forty men will lose their employment.
He scowled. That wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his job to save every ailing brewery in the country. He’d have enough trouble saving this one.
This was precisely what he’d wanted to avoid—being drawn in to caring about something. He didn’t want to end up like Gran. She’d struggled to gain her daughter a fine marriage, and instead her son-in-law had made her daughter miserable. She’d worked for years to put Plumtree Brewery at the top, and in one moment, a decision made by Russians halfway around the world had thrust her and the family company into difficulty.
That’s what cam
e of putting your heart into something. A man could do everything right, and Fate could still jerk the rug out from under him.
Now he had no choice. Though he’d been dealt a bad hand, he had to make the most of it. Plumtree must survive if his family was to survive, and it looked as if he was the only one who could make sure that it did.
No, it had to do more than survive—he had to make it stronger than before, so he could walk away at the end of the year without any guilt. So he could return to his life as a gambler, where his only risk was monetary, where he wasn’t tempted to care. Where he understood that life was unpredictable and nothing could be counted on.
Miss Lake would have to find another fool to back her and her brother’s risky scheme.
All I ask is that you present my proposal to your grandmother.
He snorted. Gran was even less likely to embrace the plan than he. But he’d promised the chit he would present it, so he would.
A knock came at his door, and he looked up to find his friend Giles Masters standing there.
With a smile, he jumped to his feet. “What the devil are you doing here?”
As a barrister of some renown, Masters spent his days arguing cases halfway across town.
“I’ve come to drag you away from all this,” Masters said with a sweep of his hand. “Your brother told me that you weren’t joining us for our whist game tonight, and that’s unacceptable.”
“You say that only because I’ve been losing lately, and you want to make some money off me for a change.”
Masters struck his chest in mock horror. “Can’t your oldest and dearest friend merely want you to join him in an evening of scintillating conversation and manly pursuits?”
“Is that what you call it?” Jarret eyed him askance. “The last time we gambled at one of Plumtree Brewery’s taverns, you and Gabe got drunk and competed to see who could fart the loudest. You won, as I recall. To the detriment of everyone in the room.”
“Ah, but I did it while being brilliantly witty. So there you have it—scintillating conversation and manly pursuits.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Now come along. Those of us who actually need to slave away during the daytime hours desire entertainment, and we won’t tolerate refusals from those like you who only dabble in a profession.”
A Hellion in Her Bed Page 4
