Hawthorne Shipping, Limited, was located in a four-story brick building on Surrey Street, right by the Victoria Embankment. Phillip’s corner office on the top floor had a splendid view of the Thames, and through his windows, he could see Waterloo Bridge, Somerset House, and the gardens along the Embankment. It was a fine spring afternoon, with no rain, plenty of sunshine, and a breeze stout enough to clear the London air of its usual coal-induced haze. The first flowers of spring were in bloom, and the sun’s rays glittered on the water of the river like the points of diamonds. All this beauty was wasted on Phillip, however, for he was occupied with something far more important than the view from his windows. Business.
“Our engineers and yours have approved the final designs,” he said as leaned over his massive mahogany desk, spreading out several large sheets of paper on its polished, plum-colored surface. He glanced at the man who stood opposite him. “Hawthorne Shipping is ready to manufacture three of these luxury liners for Dutton’s Neptune Line.” He paused, gesturing to the legal documents stacked on one corner of the desk. “With your signature on these contracts, Colonel, I can give our factories the order to proceed.”
Colonel William K. Dutton tugged at one end of his snowy white mustache—a mustache that lent the ruthless American millionaire the look of a sleepy walrus. He gave a harrumph and sat down, then drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the drawings spread out before him.
Phillip also sat down. He leaned back and waited, expressing no impatience as the silence lengthened and the minutes went by. He’d been putting this deal together for over two years. He could wait a little longer.
The Colonel finally looked up. “When could the ships be ready to set sail?”
Phillip smiled at that question. “With three propellers and a pair of four-cylinder steam engines powered by twenty-four boilers, which are fired by one hundred fifty furnaces, a ship nowadays has no need for sails, Colonel.”
The other man grinned back at him. “I’m a rag man, myself,” he confessed. “Always have been. You young men with your steam engines and boilers—bah! Nothing like the sing and whistle of sails, my lord.”
“Believe it or not, I do know what you mean. My own sailing yacht is anchored at Waterloo Pier.” He saw no need to tell the other man he hadn’t set foot on that ship for about four years.
“Ah.” Gratified by this sign of common ground, Colonel Dutton returned his attention to the drawings on the desk, and Phillip told him what he wanted to know.
“If we signed contracts today, we could have the first ship headed across the North Atlantic three years from now.” He paused, counted to three, and then said, “Do we have a deal, Colonel?”
There was another long pause. The other man’s answer, when it came, was not what he’d been hoping for. “That depends, my lord. That depends.”
“Upon what?”
Colonel Dutton sighed and leaned back, looking unhappy. He tugged at his necktie, setting it askew. “Talk to me about your brother.”
“Lawrence?” Phillip was a bit taken aback. “I didn’t realize he was a consideration in this.”
Colonel Dutton lifted a hand. “Now, don’t go thinking I’m one to mix business matters with private ones. I’m usually not. But in this case, I’m making an exception. My children mean everything to me. My son, naturally, will take over my business interests in New York. But a daughter’s a different matter. When Cynthia marries, I want to be sure her husband is capable of taking care of her in the style she is accustomed to.”
Phillip began to get an inkling of where this conversation was going, and it was no surprise to him when Dutton went on, “I’m having some serious reservations about your brother’s ability to do that. I don’t want my daughter marrying a man who can’t pull his weight in the world.”
“Lawrence receives a quarterly allowance from the estates, of course, and a share of the profits from Hawthorne Shipping. When he marries, those amounts are to be doubled, and also increased with the birth of each of his children. He is to have the house on Half Moon Street, and the villa in Brighton, and he’ll have Rose Park, which is a fine estate in Berkshire. Believe me, should Lawrence and Cynthia decide to make a match, she will be well taken care of.”
“With your money.”
Americans, he reminded himself, didn’t understand the British way of doing things. “Colonel, a British gentleman isn’t expected to earn his living. He is often demeaned in society for doing so.”
“Yet some do it anyway. You do.”
Phillip thought of all the debts he’d inherited upon his father’s death and all the work he’d done to rid the family of that burden. Gentleman or not, he’d been forced to become a man of business. He’d never had a choice. “I am, perhaps, an exception.”
“If your brother were to marry Cynthia, he would need to be an exception, too. Every man needs an occupation, my lord. It isn’t good for a man to be idle, and I don’t care what your British gentlemen usually do. When Lawrence first asked my permission to court my daughter nine months ago, I explained that I would not have Cynthia marrying some good-for-nothing who doesn’t know the meaning of work. He assured me he was not that sort of man.”
“Of course he isn’t,” Phillip murmured soothingly.
“I’d like to be convinced of that. I understood the reason he decided to return to England after so many years away was to assume his responsibilities within Hawthorne Shipping, and thereby prove himself to my satisfaction. When I suggested accompanying him on this trip, to meet you and conclude this deal, it was his idea that my wife and daughter come as well, so that we could see for ourselves the sort of life Cynthia would have here with him. I’ve only been here a few weeks, I grant you, but I can’t see that your brother does much of anything, except escort my wife and daughter on shopping expeditions.”
“That is, perhaps, my fault. As I said, a British gentleman is not expected to work, and I have not been in a hurry to give him his share of responsibility. I confess, I am a man who does not surrender control of things easily, and Lawrence has been away a long time.”
“Humph.” Dutton did not seem mollified.
Phillip knew that to an American, the sort of lassitude that defined a typical English gentleman’s life was regarded as laziness, not as a mark of good breeding. It was plain that without some sort of occupation, Lawrence would not be marrying Cynthia, and he hastily delegated one of his own many duties. “Now that he is home, Lawrence shall be in charge of all my family’s charitable activities. We are quite concerned with the welfare of those less fortunate than ourselves, and sponsor many charity events. Lawrence is to manage those.”
“That’s something, I guess,” Dutton muttered. “But running a bunch of charities doesn’t sound like much of a living. He gave me the impression he would have more responsibility than that.”
“Lawrence is very eager to take on more,” Phillip assured the older man, hoping rather than believing that to be true. “As I said, I haven’t handed control over to him as quickly as he’d like. I intend to bring him along gradually, teach him and guide him.”
“Hmm. Are you going to teach him how to make decisions, too, my lord?”
“I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“Why hasn’t he proposed to Cynthia?” the Colonel demanded. “He’s been courting her for nine months now. When he stayed with us in Newport last summer, he couldn’t be dragged from her side. Over the winter, he spent quite a bit of time at our home on Park Avenue, though not as much as he had in Newport.”
Phillip wasn’t surprised, but it wouldn’t do to mention Lawrence’s tendency to find the opening phase of anything, including courtship, to be the most interesting.
“Cynthia loves him, and he has assured me he loves her. You’ve given him a job. So what’s he waiting for? Why hasn’t he proposed? When I met my wife, I knew within fifteen minutes I was going to marry her. When you find the woman you want, you make her your own, and you don’t let go. I don
’t understand all this dithering.”
“Again, sir, I think we see the situation differently because we are of different nationalities. Love is important, of course, but in Britain, an engagement is a matter not only of mutual affection, but also—”
Dutton’s fist slammed down on the desk, interrupting this rather insipid explanation. “Damn it, man, does he intend to marry Cynthia or not? If he’s trifling with my little girl—”
“I’m sure that is not the case, Colonel. My brother is a gentleman. He would never trifle with a young lady’s affections.” Though he couldn’t begin to count the number of times Lawrence had done that very thing, Phillip hoped with all his heart that this time his brother’s feelings ran deeper. “My brother says he loves your daughter, and I know he has every intention of asking her to be his wife.”
“Then why doesn’t he do it? What’s holding him back?”
“Perhaps his reticence is due to how little time Cynthia has spent in England. It’s possible Lawrence desires Cynthia to be sure she will be suited to the life here before proceeding to an engagement.”
The Colonel did not seem convinced. “Perhaps that’s so. We’ll see over the next few months, I suppose. But if your brother can’t work up the nerve to propose to my daughter by then, I doubt he’s got the gumption to take care of her. Until I’m convinced he’s sincere and responsible, I won’t be signing any agreements with Hawthorne Shipping.”
Phillip studied the older man’s determined countenance, and he knew that there was no point in further discussion. “I appreciate your reservations, sir. We shall wait and hope that Lawrence and Miss Dutton come to an understanding soon.”
Both men stood up, and Phillip added, “My brother and I shall still have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner tonight, I trust?”
“Of course, of course. The Savoy’s quite a place, I hear.”
“I only wish I was in a position to entertain you at my own home in Park Lane. But these renovations are taking forever.”
“Yes, yes, but once all the work is done, you’ll be glad of electric lighting and hot water faucets. We’ve had them for years, but you all don’t seem as open to modern conveniences as we Americans are.”
“We are much more traditional on this side of the Atlantic,” Phillip agreed as he escorted Dutton out of his office. “Still, the house on Half Moon Street was renovated quite some time ago, and I am quickly coming around to your American point of view. Electricity is a marvelous thing.”
The two men continued to discuss the wonders of electricity as they went down the stairs.
“I look forward to seeing you this evening,” Phillip said as they reached the main foyer of the building and paused by the front doors. “Good day, Colonel.”
After Dutton had departed, Phillip had his carriage brought around. As he returned home, he went over his conversation with the American millionaire, and despite Lawrence’s dillydallying, he was more convinced than ever of the rightness of his brother marrying Dutton’s daughter. Cynthia was a levelheaded, sensible girl. She was also pretty, rich, and—most of all—forgiving. In other words, she was the best thing that had ever happened to his brother, and Phillip intended to remind Lawrence of that fact as soon as possible.
The face of a pretty blonde with big hazel eyes and soft pink lips came into his mind, but he shoved the image out again at once. By tomorrow Maria Martingale would be gone, and Lawrence would never have to know that for one week his first love had been living right next door.
At Half Moon Street, he paused in the foyer, and his butler came bustling forward to take his hat and stick. “Where is my brother?” he asked as he handed them over.
“Mr. Hawthorne is in the drawing room, sir, having tea.”
“Thank you, Danvers,” Phillip answered and started for the stairs. Somehow, he thought as he went up to the drawing room, he had to make his brother see sense. That was never an easy thing to do, but when he entered the drawing room Phillip got an inkling of just how hard it was going to be this time. Seated beside Lawrence on the plum velvet settee, sipping tea and looking as deceptively sweet as the angel atop one’s Christmas tree, was Maria Martingale.
Chapter 4
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.
William Shakespeare
He should have known. Phillip paused in the doorway, glaring at the troublesome bit of skirt sitting in his drawing room, and berated himself for his own slow wits. He should have known Maria would come crying to Lawrence the moment his back was turned. She had no scruples about breaking her word, so of course she’d have no scruples about how blatantly she broke it.
He should have anticipated this and guarded against it, but now it was too late. He didn’t often make a strategic blunder, and it was even more galling to think it was Maria Martingale who had outmaneuvered him.
“Phillip!” His brother jumped up, and it did not escape his notice that Lawrence bore the abashed look of a boy caught snatching sweets. “Look who I’ve been visiting with. Can you believe it?”
Striving to display a neutrality he was far from feeling, Phillip came into the room. “Miss Martingale,” he said, bowing to her as she set aside her teacup and rose from her seat.
“Lord Kayne,” she greeted with a curtsy, smiling and looking ever so pleased with herself. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Look at him, Maria,” Lawrence put in, laughing, as she sat back down. “Didn’t turn a hair when he saw you. That’s our Phillip all over, isn’t it? Never shows his hand. You’d think it had only been a day since he’d seen you last, not twelve years.”
Startled, Phillip glanced at his brother, then back again. It seemed she hadn’t yet told Lawrence of their altercation, and he found her reticence puzzling. What was the baggage up to now? “Twelve years?” he murmured as he crossed the room and took the chair opposite. “Has it been that long?”
Perhaps she hadn’t yet had sufficient time to cry on his brother’s shoulder about her misfortunes and condemn him as a bully and a cad. But no, he decided, studying her face. If he’d interrupted her before she’d had a chance to play on Lawrence’s sympathy, she wouldn’t be looking like a kitten in the cream. Whatever plan she’d concocted, she’d already put it into play.
“Really, Phillip, sometimes you’re the most aggravating fellow,” Lawrence said as he resumed his seat beside Maria. “I’d have thought even you would show a bit of surprise to find Maria in our drawing room. Awfully unsporting of you, old chap, to be so unflappable all the time.”
“Your brother has always been a difficult man to take by surprise,” Maria said, reaching for her cup and saucer from the tea table in front of her. “That’s why he’s so good at chess, you know. He’s always one step ahead of the rest of us.”
“Not ahead of you, it seems,” he murmured.
The inflection of irony in his voice was lost on Lawrence, but not on her. Her smile widened as she leaned back in her seat. “Perhaps not,” she agreed, her hazel eyes filled with amusement.
He felt an answering smile tug at the corners of his own mouth, an amazing thing, since he also felt the desire to wring her neck. “Still,” he added, his smile widening, “if memory serves, you haven’t managed to defeat me yet.”
She straightened in her seat, looking at him in pretended bewilderment. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Chess,” he said, though they both knew that wasn’t what he meant at all.
Lawrence groaned. “Don’t let’s talk about chess. You two were mad about that game when we were children. Always going at it, for hours and hours, I remember.”
Phillip remembered, too. He’d been about thirteen, she eleven, when he’d first taught her to play. He could still see her sitting across from him at her father’s worktable in the kitchens at Kayne Hall, her elbows on the table and her chin propped on her fists, studying the board with fierce concentration as she tried to find ways to outwit him. She’d been a deuced good player—tenacious, bol
d, clever, and so, so angry with herself when she lost, always vowing that one day she’d defeat him.
“He only taught me the game because you refused to play,” Maria reminded Lawrence, keeping her gaze on Phillip. “Isn’t that so, my lord?”
“Yes,” he admitted, “but you were a good player. You had a talent for strategy.” Looking at her now, sitting far too close to Lawrence on the settee, he wished he’d remembered her talent for strategy before this moment. “I think if we were to play chess today, you would give me a very difficult time of it.”
“I always gave you a difficult time of it,” she countered at once. “The only difference nowadays is that I’d win.”
Lawrence’s laughter interrupted any dispute of that Phillip might have made. “Scarce two minutes in the same room, and you two are squabbling already. Some things never change.”
He didn’t want to squabble with Maria. He wanted to find out just what she’d been up to, then he wanted her gone. “What brings you to call on us, Miss Martingale?” he asked, deciding to take a direct approach, though he didn’t expect her to answer with the truth.
“Oh, but Maria didn’t come to pay a social call,” Lawrence said before she could offer a reply. “She and I actually bumped into each other on the sidewalk outside.”
“Did you?” Phillip murmured, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as he gave the woman across from him a hard stare. “What an extraordinary coincidence.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Lawrence agreed, blissfully unaware of any tension. “Though it was a bit of a painful one. She twisted her ankle during our collision. All my fault, of course.”
“Indeed? You sent for a doctor, I hope?”
“I wanted to, but Maria said she didn’t need a doctor. She’s being very brave about it.”
“Oh, very brave,” he agreed, his voice so dry that even Maria couldn’t help grimacing a bit, but she recovered her poise at once.
Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 5
