Gareth had promised her pleasure, and her body had sung with delight beneath his skilled fingers. But there was more to the act, and she longed to experience everything. He’d eased her initial fears with fevered kisses and seductive caresses. She now knew two things: she wasn’t frigid in the bedroom, and Gareth would never lie to her.
She’d never thought to trust a man again, but Gareth was different. Hadn’t he proven himself trustworthy?
Jane summoned her maid, dressed in a rose alpaca morning gown, and rushed down to see if there were any messages on the vestibule table. She had no appetite for breakfast and settled instead for a cup of coffee in the dining room.
She had almost finished her first cup when there was a knock on the front door. She ran to open it, beating her elderly butler to the task.
Gareth stood on the front step.
“Thank goodness it’s you!” she cried out.
He arched a dark eyebrow. “I should be so fortunate as to always receive such a warm welcome.”
Jane was aware of her butler coming into the vestibule. “Lady Stanwell?”
She waved him away. “No need for concern, Graves. I will see Mr. Ramsey to the parlor myself.”
Once they were alone, she shut the door and leaned against it. “Did you find the duke?”
He chuckled at her eagerness. “I did. I sent Lady Olivia a note reassuring her of her fiancée’s well-being before coming here.”
Jane let out a sigh of relief. “Olivia must be so relieved.”
“Not all went smoothly, Jane.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes snapped to his face, and it was then that she noted his appearance. His clothing was disheveled, and a faint bruising appeared by his right eye. His bottom lip was split at the corner. “What happened to you?”
“The moneylender is not a gentleman, but a man known for his hard tactics. Needless to say, there was a scuffle.”
She came close and gently touched the corner of his lip. “You fought to save Edward.”
“It was the expedient thing to do at the time. Snake did indeed mistake the duke for his younger brother and decided to send a message that he was late on his loan. The timing of my arrival was most fortunate. You should know that the duke is battered and bruised, but will recover just fine.”
Her breath seemed to solidify in her throat. “Oh, Gareth,” she said.
“No need to worry now. It all ended well.”
She gently touched the bruising under his eye. “This will surely turn black and blue.”
He smiled. “I’ve had worse.”
“And your lip! Are you in pain?”
“Not overly so, but I do enjoy your ministrations.”
“Devil,” she teased. “Is that all you think about?”
“Only when I’m with you.”
Her heart lurched. He surprised her yet again. He’d risked his safety to aid her close friend and her fiancée. Leaning close, she placed a gentle kiss on his bruised lip.
“Jane,” he groaned, and pulled her into his arms.
Emboldened, she kissed him again. “I want to finish what we started last night.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Here? Now?”
She smiled coyly. “No, but soon.”
A wicked glimmer lit his eyes. “I’m at your service, madam.”
Her heart skipped a beat at his charm.
Oh, dear.
She’d sworn never to care for a man again, and heaven help her, never to love again.
But the heart—especially hers—was unpredictable and uncontrollable. It never seemed to listen to reason.
Chapter Fifteen
After Gareth left, Jane busied herself with the mundane task of taking inventory of the pantry alongside Aunt Eleanor in a vain attempt to keep her thoughts from him. Despite the disorderly shelves full of jarred vegetables and jams, she had only been partly successful. Her mind kept turning to the prior evening and the pleasure she’d experienced.
Gareth had sensed her unease and had seduced her slowly, carefully, until a passionate fluttering arose at the back of her neck and her fear had dissipated. Until her body throbbed with pleasure and she’d eagerly craved more…so much more. Until Olivia had banged on the front door and interrupted them with her crisis.
“My lady?”
Startled, Jane knocked over a jar of jam on the shelf. Her butler stood in the pantry doorway.
“Yes, Graves.”
“There’s a gentleman caller for you,” he said.
Gareth had only departed two hours ago. Jane’s brow furrowed. “Has Mr. Ramsey returned?” she asked.
“No. Mr. Marbury waits in the parlor.”
An unpleasant feeling rose in her throat. She hadn’t seen Simon since she’d abruptly left Vauxhall Gardens with Gareth. Jane turned to explain Simon Marbury’s presence to her aunt and a found a wide smile lighting the elderly woman’s wrinkled face.
“My, my,” Eleanor said. “You have become quite popular with the gentlemen lately. I am proud of you, my dear.”
“It’s not what you think,” Jane rushed.
Eleanor shooed her out of the pantry and to the door. “Go. Meet Mr. Marbury in the parlor. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
Her unconventional aunt was turning out to be even more open-minded when it came to Jane’s widowed status. Jane wondered how receptive Eleanor would be if she knew exactly what Simon had planned for her the night of Vauxhall Gardens.
Squaring her shoulders, Jane swept into the parlor. Simon jumped to his feet from the sofa as soon as she entered. He was meticulously dressed as usual with an olive green jacket, flowered waistcoat, skintight pantaloons, and buffed Hessians. She couldn’t help but compare his delicate features with Gareth’s rugged masculinity and, not for the first time, she wondered what she had found attractive about Simon.
Would he have aided Olivia? Would he have gone off to unsavory parts of London in the middle of the night to brawl a cruel and dangerous moneylender?
The answer was a resounding no.
“Thank you for receiving me. I was concerned for your welfare after you left Vauxhall Gardens,” Simon said.
She recalled Gareth unceremoniously announcing she’d been ill from imbibing too much alcohol. She’d been mortified at the time, but looking back, it was an effective way to allow him to escort her home.
“I do believe I drank one too many glasses of your potent punch,” she said. As if he didn’t know. As if he hadn’t planned on getting her intoxicated.
Simon stepped toward her, hands clasped behind his back, and an expectant expression on his face. “I apologize if I offended you in some way that evening.”
She saw no need to mince words. “I was taken aback by what you wanted. Especially regarding Lord Hartley.”
“I thought you sought excitement. You seemed to be enjoying our attention that evening,” he said.
She straightened. “I did. But I believed any excitement would solely be between the two of us, and certainly not while I was too foxed to know what I was doing.”
“And now?”
She shook her head.
“I take it your affections have been occupied elsewhere?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I see. Mr. Ramsey is a lucky man.” His voice was resigned.
Simon was too intelligent not to know, but still she asked. “Why would you assume I’m involved with Mr. Ramsey?”
He gazed at her with a bland half smile. “Come now, my lady. I saw the way he looked at you. It was merely a matter of time.”
She felt a strange thrill at his words. Did Gareth really look at her with avid interest? Enough to make it known to Simon and others? She recalled Lady Preston’s blatant interest in Gareth. She’d believed Gareth was caught up in the lady’s seductive trap.
Simon shifted uneasily on his feet, and her eyes snapped back to his face. She didn’t need to apologize, but something about his distress, no matter how much of it was from his own vani
ty, prompted her to speak. “I’m sorry, Mr. Marbury.”
“Don’t be. I hope you find what you seek.”
“You as well.”
He cleared his throat. “I should like to remain friends. My family is hosting its annual ball in a month. Mother is excited, even though my father remains ill with little chance of recovery. Your friend, Lady Olivia, and her mother are attending. The duke and his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Westmont, as well. I hope you will still attend?”
Jane recalled receiving the invitation. The ball was two weeks before Olivia’s wedding, and she had previously intended on going.
Simon stared at her intently, waiting for her answer. It suddenly occurred to her that—once again—he was concerned with what society thought. Not of her reputation, but of his. She had been seen with him at the theatre and at Vauxhall Gardens. Society believed she was out of mourning and that Simon had taken an interest in her. He gloried in the attention. Relished it. He would surely be mocked if she didn’t attend his family’s ball and it became known that the tragic widow of Lord Stanwell had lost interest in one of the ton’s favorites, the fashionable Mr. Simon Marbury.
Or worse, that she chose another over him.
“I had planned on attending, but I’m uncertain if—”
“Mr. Ramsey is attending as well,” he said.
She blinked in surprise. Gareth had not spoken fondly of Simon. She recalled his words and the stiffening of his features as he’d spoken them.
“We are involved in business matters, but we are not friends,” Gareth had said.
After what he had told her about Simon’s plans for her at Vauxhall, she’d thought Gareth would avoid socializing with Simon. Certainly not attend a silly ball.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly what business dealings Gareth and Simon did have together. Did Gareth represent Simon in a legal capacity? But how could that be if Gareth solely handled matrimonial matters?
Her curiosity was piqued. What was the connection between the two men? She may go to the ball, but she wanted the truth beforehand.
It was time to put the question to Gareth directly.
Chapter Sixteen
The Marbury foundry and factory was located on the outskirts of London. It was a cavernous stone building. Carts loaded with charcoal were lined along one side of the factory and a stream flowed parallel to the building and powered a churning water wheel. Thick black smoke curling from the factory’s two smoke stacks marred the clear-blue sky. Gareth had purposely arranged his meeting with Simon at the foundry late in the afternoon, after the hottest part of the day had passed.
Simon met him at the tall wood and steel doors at the entrance to the factory. “What happened to your eye?”
Gareth touched his bruised left eye and grinned. “I enjoyed a few matches in the boxing ring with a colleague.”
Simon snorted. “It wasn’t our mysterious investor, was it?”
Gareth grinned and shook his head. “No such luck. He hasn’t changed his mind about remaining anonymous either. But he did insist I tour your factory and report back to him.”
Gareth stepped through the doors. The heat level rose twenty degrees, and combined with the thick smell of burning charcoal and melting iron the air was oppressive. The sounds of the blast furnaces were distinct and loud.
“I come to the factory only when it’s required of me. The heat and stench are overwhelming,” Simon said, pressing a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.
Both men wore white shirts and dark trousers. Gareth had never seen Simon dressed so simply.
“With your father ill, I assumed you would spend a lot of time here,” Gareth said.
Simon snorted. “My father loved the foundry. I prefer my office in the comfort of my own home.”
No wonder. With his polished Hessians and styled blond hair, Simon appeared out of place in his own factory. Even his callus-free hands and buffed fingernails, without a hint of dirt beneath them, were a tell-tale sign of his life of leisure.
“Show me where the cannons are manufactured,” Gareth said.
They ventured deep into the foundry where two blast furnaces, tall chimney-like structures, were operating. Large, muscular men in dirty shirtsleeves and soot-blackened, weathered faces shoveled charcoal into one of the blast furnaces. The fire roared like an angry dragon as the charcoal burned brightly hot in the belly of the furnace. The temperature was stifling, and beads of sweat ran down the men’s foreheads. Another worker tossed ingots, or bars of pig iron, into the top of the furnace.
“Who supplies your iron?” Gareth asked.
“An iron ore mining company North of Manchester. After they mine it, they smelt the iron into ingots. Our factory remolds the pig iron into the cast iron cannons,” Simon shouted over the noisy furnaces.
Simon motioned to one of the workers, and a burly man with bushy brows and sweat-soaked shirt approached. “This is Mr. McGiltry, the foundry manager. He’ll explain what they’re doing.”
“We’re casting the barrel of the cannon now,” McGiltry shouted as he pointed to a worker pouring red-hot liquid iron into a long, cylindrical mold. “Every cannon has a cone with an internal cylindrical bore for holding an explosive charge and ball. The thickest and strongest part of the cone is sealed close and located closest to the explosive charge. That’s the next step in our casting. When the explosive charge ignites and the ball leaves the bore, the thickest portion of the cone contains and directs the force.”
“Do you manufacture other things?” Gareth asked.
“Aye,” McGiltry said. “The foundry also produces cast iron fire grates, balustrades, and parts for steam engines.”
“Thank you, Mr. McGiltry,” Gareth said.
Simon led Gareth away. “The majority of our production is cannon manufacturing. Before my father fell ill, he signed another contract with the Board of Ordnance to supply cannons to the army.”
Gareth had a file on the Marbury Company and already knew this information. Simon’s father was a true innovator. He had also been known as an ethical businessman. His illness was a tragedy, not only because old man Marbury wasn’t expected to recover, but because his son would inherit everything.
Simon’s father had created a lucrative business, but his son had managed to go through the profits by gambling, drinking, and visiting expensive brothels. His clothing and tailor bills were outrageous, not to mention the gross amount he lavished on himself and his friends with private theatre boxes at Drury Lane and private supper boxes at Vauxhall Gardens. He was a spendthrift and derelict.
He was also a criminal.
“I’d like to see the finished product,” Gareth said.
A hall connected the foundry to a large warehouse that stored the manufactured cannons. As soon as they left the stifling heat of the foundry, Gareth breathed easier.
He ran his hand down the length of a cannon’s black barrel. The cast iron was stamped with the words, “MARBURY COMPANY.”
“My investor wants to maximize profits,” Gareth said.
“I can do this,” Simon said.
Gareth held his gaze. “He wants to know the details.”
Simon pressed his lips together, then finally nodded. “It’s the pig iron. Too much phosphorous makes the pig iron excessively brittle. Phosphorous cannot be removed during the smelting process. My supplier has phosphorous-free ores, but they are scarce and expensive and found only in a few mines. I’m careful to purchase high quality pig iron. But I’ve placed orders for the cheaper type as well.”
Gareth understood. “You said the inferior pig iron makes the cast iron brittle. Won’t the cannons fail?”
Simon’s mouth turned upward in a sardonic smile. “I admit they may have a tendency to burst during operation without showing any previous weakness or wear.”
“Doesn’t it make them dangerous to operate?” Gareth asked.
“Perhaps.” Simon shrugged. “Or perhaps not. Either way, the army’s contract is fulfi
lled.”
A flash of pure rage went through Gareth’s spine at Simon’s cutthroat business practices. By sheer force of will, he forced himself to rein in his temper.
“I’m not a fool. I don’t use the cheaper iron for every cannon,” Simon continued, oblivious to Gareth’s rising fury, “but when I do, the profit is astronomical. You can reassure our investor that those profits will continue.”
Gareth walked around the room, studying the cannons in the warehouse. He wondered what type of iron was used to manufacture each one. “Are any of these here made of the inferior iron?”
“Only one. See if you can find it.”
He was not a metallurgical expert, and the cast iron barrels all appeared identical.
“What about the military inspectors?” Gareth asked. “From what I’ve been told, there are a dozen army men who inspect the cannons. Won’t the inferior iron be detected?”
Simon scoffed. “I’ve ferreted out those inspectors who can be easily bribed.”
Gareth’s gaze sharpened. “Which ones?”
Simon’s eyes were sharp and assessing. “I’ve told you before, my list is confidential. All you need to know is that the bribes I pay do not put a dent in my profits. Now, have I shown you enough to satisfy your man?”
Gareth had tried to get Simon to reveal names before, but he’d refused to budge. Gareth was frustrated, but he acknowledged the factory visit wasn’t an entire failure. He’d learned how the inferior cannons were manufactured. He was only missing one last piece of key evidence.
Which military inspectors were turning a blind eye to Simon’s scam? How far up the chain was the corruption?
Simon preferred his luxurious home office, and without a doubt Gareth knew the missing information would be located there. He needed to search Simon’s home. Once he had the names, it would be sufficient to arrest Simon and the corrupt government officials.
He’d conducted clandestine searches of homes in the past. He’d once broken into a judge’s chambers during a mission to prove the man had been repeatedly bribed to issue false verdicts. Gareth didn’t have qualms about breaking into the Marbury’s Mayfair mansion.
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