Pinter sat back down. “If you can afford to pay me, I can afford the time.”
As one of the most celebrated of London’s Bow Street Runners, Pinter made his own hours, his own rules. He was one of the few to have an office he paid for himself, since he was widely sought after for private investigations when he wasn’t working for the public good.
“Excellent. Here’s what I’d like you to do …”
HETTY PLUMTREE WAS beginning to regret she’d ever made that cursed bargain with her grandson. Jarret would shave ten years off her life before the year was out. Entertain a proposal from some tiny brewery in Burton? Even speak to Mr. Harper about it? That boded ill.
She stared at Mr. Croft, who sat stiffly erect at her bedside, having just given her his dawn report. “You’re sure he was speaking of the India market? Not the West Indies market, perchance?”
“Why would he speak of the West Indies? It’s in an entirely different part of the world. I can’t imagine his confusing the two. Eton’s lessons in geography might be lacking, but his lordship isn’t so devoid of knowledge of the world as to be—”
“Mr. Croft!” Sometimes getting information from him was like unraveling a carpet one strand at a time.
“Oh. Beg pardon. I was rambling again, wasn’t I? In any case, it was definitely the India market, because I distinctly remembered your saying that you didn’t intend to enter that particular area, and he told the woman something to that effect. Indeed, he seemed to agree with your assessment.”
Ah, well, at least Jarret had some sense. The East India Company was unpredictable. Look at how its captains had turned on Hodgson’s after the man had raised his prices.
“Tell me about this brewster you mentioned.” She already knew that Miss Lake must be pretty, since whenever Mr. Croft mentioned her, he blushed. Mr. Croft turned into a blithering idiot around pretty women, which is probably why the female had managed to get past him.
“What do you wish to know?”
She coughed violently a moment, alarming Mr. Croft. A pox on this blasted cough of hers. When was it going to end? “How old was the woman?”
Hetty had not given up on marrying Jarret off, despite their bargain. But she wanted great-grandchildren, and the older the woman, the less likely she was as a prospect.
“Young, I would guess.”
She sighed. Mr. Croft made an excellent spy in some ways, but he was not adept at judging age. “You said she pushed her way into the office. Was she a gentlewoman?”
“Most assuredly. I thought her quite genteel until she dashed around my desk.”
“And my grandson did not throw her out right away?”
“No. He tasted her ale and talked with her for some time. Then he promised to speak to you last night about her proposal.”
Thank God Mr. Croft excelled at listening at keyholes. “Instead he went off to play cards and drink with that scapegrace Masters.” Another fit of coughing ensued, which made her even crankier. “One of these days I shall pin that lad’s ears back.”
“His lordship’s?”
“Masters’s.”
A new voice sounded from the doorway. “I’ll hold him down for you while you do.”
She glanced up, startled. Good Lord, Jarret was here. He never came in the morning, and certainly not this early. How much had he heard?
He cast Mr. Croft a long, considering look. “Mr. Croft, if you wish to continue in the brewery’s employ, this will be your last dawn meeting with my grandmother. I won’t tolerate spies.”
Mr. Croft jumped to his feet. “My lord … I did not—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Croft,” Hetty put in. “You may go.”
The poor man backed toward the door, keeping a wary eye on Jarret as if he thought the lad might throw a punch at him. Then he made a swift exit.
Jarret took Mr. Croft’s seat, stretching his long legs out and folding his hands over his belly. “You can’t trust me to run the place on my own, can you?”
She stared at him, unrepentant. “Would you, if you were me?”
“I suppose not.” His expression hardened. “But I swear, I’ll dismiss the little weasel if he ever again—”
“You will not. He supports a mother and five sisters. And he knows every inch of Plumtree Brewery from the ground up.”
Jarret leaned forward. “Well then, I’ll dismiss myself. Our agreement was that you would keep your hands off, and if you can’t even hold to that stricture, I see no point in continuing.”
“Oh, all right,” she grumbled. “I will tell Mr. Croft not to come here anymore.” She coughed into her handkerchief. “If you kept me informed the way you promised, I would not have to resort to such measures.”
“I keep you informed well enough.”
“Then why did I have to hear about this Lake Ale woman from Mr. Croft?” She erupted into another fit of coughing.
“Careful, Gran. Dr. Wright says you’re not supposed to excite yourself.” His unemotional tone would have hurt her feelings if not for the worry she’d seen flash across his face.
“Dr. Wright can go to hell,” she retorted.
“If you don’t listen to him, you’ll beat him there.” Now worry had filtered into his voice as well.
She shot him a sharp glance. “Are you saying I am destined for hell?”
He gave a rueful smile. “Perhaps.” When she glared at him, his smile faded. “I’m saying you need to watch your health. And you’re not going to do so by fretting over every little tale Mr. Croft lays at your feet.”
The impudent whelp had no idea how hard it was to step back and hand over the reins at her age. “What are you doing here at this hour, anyway? I thought you played cards last night with your rascal friends.”
A mild annoyance flickered in his eyes. “I see that Mr. Croft’s reports are very thorough.”
“They had better be. I pay him well for them.” She sharpened her gaze on him. “So? What has made you rise with the chickens?”
“I’m traveling to Burton today.”
She stared at him, instantly wary. “Why?”
He shrugged. “To speak to the owner of Lake Ale about our selling their October brew for them.”
“To the East India Company?”
“Among others.”
So the pretty Miss Lake had convinced him to consider her proposal, had she? Interesting. Now Hetty had to decide how to play this.
On the one hand, she did not wish to lose the company due to Jarret following his cock. On the other hand, Plumtree Brewery was ailing and she wasn’t sure she had the strength for the battle to save it.
Jarret could do it, though. She had no intention of watching him hand the place back to her at the end of the year. She wanted him well and truly hooked. And you only hooked a fish by giving him a little line.
But could the brewery withstand such an experiment in these hard times?
It didn’t matter. If she put her foot down now, she would never get Jarret near it again, and Plumtree Brewery needed someone with his intelligence to run it. She had to risk giving him his head, for the future good of the company.
Besides, this woman brewer might be the key to shifting his interest from gambling to brewing. Jarret had only the most shallow relations with women. He’d been much like his older brother in that respect. Miss Lake could change that, especially if she’d managed to interest him in a project enough to get him hieing off to Burton.
Brewing was in his blood. She had ignored that to her peril, when she had sent him off to Eton against his wishes. He had been punishing her for it ever since. So he must continue to think he was punishing her.
What he must not guess is that he was playing into her hands. And of all her grandchildren, Jarret was the most suspicious.
“I do not want Plumtree Brewery to get into the India trade,” she said, feeling her way along.
With a black scowl, he sat up in his chair. “You don’t have a say in it.”
Ah, that’s the spir
it. “But Jarret—”
“It could bolster our profits considerably.”
“It could sink us, too. It has damned near sunk Hodgson’s.”
He conceded that with a nod. “But Allsopp’s in Burton is profiting from it. Why shouldn’t we?”
“What if I forbid you from involving us?”
That stubborn look he sometimes got passed across his face. “What if I hand you back your brewery?” He rose and headed for the door.
“Wait!” Well played, Jarret, well played. He would make a fine captain of industry one day. She must have been mad to think he should be a barrister.
Now came the difficult part—giving in without making it look too easy. “What am I to do about Plumtree Brewery while you are gone?”
He halted at the door to shoot her a wary glance. “Harper and Croft can handle matters for a few days. I’ll make sure they know what needs to be done. I shouldn’t be away long.”
She scowled. “I am not giving you my blessing in this.”
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t need your blessing.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t come here to gain permission or approval. I came to keep you informed. Since I’ve done what I came for, I’m leaving. Is that clear?”
Insolent rascal. She managed a stiff nod.
“Good.” He surprised her by coming over to kiss her on the forehead. “Listen to Dr. Wright, will you? And for God’s sake, take care of yourself.”
Then he was gone.
She waited until she heard the door close downstairs before calling for her slyest footman.
“Follow my grandson,” she ordered him, “but do it discreetly. Eventually, he’ll go to an inn. There should be a guest there named Miss Lake, whom Lord Jarret is accompanying out of town. Once he and the woman leave, find out everything you can about her from the innkeeper and report back.”
With a nod, the footman hurried off to do her bidding.
Hetty collapsed against the pillow with a smile. It was already looking to be a very good day.
Chapter Seven
Annabel watched as Sissy nervously paced the inn’s common room the next morning, then halted in front of her.
“How do I look?” Sissy was wearing her best day gown of purple velvet, adorned with the amethysts she donned only for special occasions. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes bright.
“You look lovely, as usual,” Annabel answered.
“And you look like a washerwoman.” Sissy made a face. “I can’t believe you chose to wear that brown thing. We’re riding with a marquess’s son, for heaven’s sake!”
“We’ll be traipsing in and out of inns, and it looks like rain. I’m not going to wear my Sunday best just because Lord Jarret happens to be a lord.” And certainly not just because he’d kissed her senseless in the hall. Or made her feel things, want things …
She must stop thinking about that! Today he’d probably probe more into why Lake Ale was in trouble, and she had to be ready. Becoming a dreamy-eyed romantic every time he flashed his dimpled smile would not help.
With a sigh, Sissy glanced at the clock. “I do hope something dreadful hasn’t happened. Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Jarret had sent a note saying he would arrive at ten-thirty, and it was nearly eleven.
“I’m sure he’s merely taking his sweet time,” Annabel said dryly, “as lords are apt to do.”
“He’s coming!” Geordie shouted from the window where he’d been keeping watch for the last half hour.
The sudden leap of her pulse made Annabel scowl. “How do you know it’s him?”
“There’s a crest on the door and everything.” Geordie puffed out his chest. “Just wait until that lout Toby Mawer sees me drive up in a marquess’s coach. He’ll be green with envy!”
Annabel scarcely had time to steady her nerves before Jarret strode into the common room, full of confidence and arrogance and all things lordly, from his well-tailored morning coat of Sardinian blue superfine to the highly polished sheen of his black Hussar boots. It would make any woman grow wobbly in the knees.
Not her, of course. Her knees were quite unwobbly, thank you very much.
As she rose, his gaze met hers. “Miss Lake,” he said in the husky voice she remembered from last night. “Forgive my tardiness. There was an issue with the horses.”
“We can hardly complain, my lord,” she said as she held out her hand, “given your generosity in taking us to Burton.”
He pressed her hand briefly, his gaze running over her with an easy familiarity that made her shiver. Something dark and knowing flickered in his eyes before he smoothed his features into a cordial smile.
Now her knees were wobbly.
Sissy cleared her throat, and Annabel started. “Lord Jarret, may I present my sister-in-law, Cecelia Lake. Sissy, this is Lord Jarret Sharpe.”
As they made the requisite bows and curtsies, accompanied by murmured pleasantries, Geordie hurried to Sissy’s side.
Sissy laid her hand on Geordie’s arm. “And this is my son, Geordie.”
“George,” Geordie corrected her. He held out his hand manfully. “George Lake, at your service. Very good of you to let us use your carriage, sir. I hope it doesn’t inconvenience you too much.”
A lump stuck in Annabel’s throat to hear Geordie sound so grown up. He must have been practicing that introduction for the past hour.
“Not at all,” Jarret said with nary a trace of condescension. “Happy to help you and your family.”
When Geordie fairly preened at being treated like a man, she could have kissed Jarret. For all his bluster, Geordie was sensitive, and they didn’t need one of his fits of pique today.
“Shall we go, then?” Jarret offered Annabel his arm, leaving Geordie to follow suit with Sissy.
Annabel took it, fighting to quell the sudden tripling of her pulse. They had walked exactly this way last night, and it hadn’t affected her so. But that was before he’d kissed her. Now she was intensely aware of the tension in his body, the flexing of his muscles beneath her hand … the rosemary scent of Hungary Water.
“You look well today, Miss Lake,” he said.
Sissy snorted behind her.
When Jarret shot Annabel a quizzical glance, she said, “My sister-in-law wanted me to dress more extravagantly for a ride in a marquess’s coach.”
Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “And of course, being thoroughly unimpressed by rank, you refused.”
“It looks like rain,” she said defensively.
His only response was an insolent arch of his brow.
When they reached the coach and he handed her in, she caught sight of Sissy’s face and groaned. Her sister-in-law wore a speculative look that showed she’d noticed how comfortable Annabel and Jarret were together.
Oh, dear. She would have to be more careful with herself around him.
Geordie paused next to Jarret before climbing in. “Would it be all right if I rode up top with the coachman?”
“Certainly not!” Sissy and Annabel said in unison from inside the carriage.
Jarret eyed them askance. “It’s fine with me, ladies.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Sissy said.
“What if there’s an accident?” Annabel added. “That’s no place for a boy. Get inside, Geordie. You are not riding up there.”
Grumbling about being treated like a child, Geordie climbed in and plopped down in the seat opposite them. Even after they were settled and Jarret had ordered the coachman to drive on, he sulked, arms crossed over his chest.
But the boy couldn’t stay immune to the sights of London for long. Soon he was peeking out the window at the spectacle of a barge being loaded on the river, and then he gasped as they took a corner speedily, with almost no jostling.
“This is a berline coach, isn’t it, my lord?” he asked.
“Indeed it is.”
“With two underperches and full underlock?”
“I have no idea,” Jarret drawled.
“Geordie has an avid interest in carriages,” Annabel explained.
“It has to have full underlock,” Geordie went on. “It turns too neatly for anything else.” He bounced on the seat. “And it’s well sprung, too. It must have cost you a fortune!”
“Geordie!” Sissy chided. “Don’t be rude.”
“Actually, I don’t know what it cost,” Jarret said. “It belongs to my brother.”
“Oh. Right,” Geordie mumbled. “It’s your brother who’s the marquess.” He peered up at Jarret. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t look like a lord.”
Jarret blinked. “How is a lord supposed to look?”
“They carry quizzing glasses and fancy canes.”
“Ah, yes.” His lordship seemed to be trying hard not to smile. “I must have left mine in the other carriage.”
Geordie’s face lit up. “You have another carriage? What sort? A curricle? Or a phaeton? Oh, it has to be a phaeton—that’s what all the lords drive!”
“It’s a cabriolet, actually.”
“A cabriolet,” Geordie whispered in awe. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one. Do you race it?”
“No. I leave that to my younger brother. Perhaps you’ve heard of him—Lord Gabriel Sharpe.”
Now Geordie was in raptures. “Your brother is the Angel of Death?”
“Where did you hear that?” Annabel asked sharply.
“From Mother. It was in one of her gossip papers.”
Sissy turned red. “My lord, please forgive my son. He has a tendency to speak without thinking.”
Jarret laughed, then shot Annabel a veiled glance. “A family trait, I suppose.” When she glared at him, he added, “It doesn’t matter. I know what they call my brother.”
They all fell silent.
After several moments, Sissy said, “We are very grateful to you for coming to the aid of Lake Ale like this, sir.”
A cynical expression crossed his face. “I hope we both don’t come to regret it. I’ve barely dipped my toe into the ale business, and this is a new area for me. Indeed, if not for our wager, I wouldn’t even—”
He caught himself with a groan.
A Hellion in Her Bed Page 9
