One-Click Buy: July 2009 Harlequin Blaze

by Julie Kenner

  “So this is the financial heart of the empire, the City,” she breathed, grabbing his arm to steady herself after she turned around and around.

  “There is the Lord Mayor’s residence—Mansion House.” He pointed out the looming gray-stone building with the Corinthian-columned portico. “And down there is the Royal Exchange. I thought you might like to see the insurer, Lloyds of London. I have a friend from Cambridge who oversees their underwriting on the electrical-lighting systems cities are starting to install.” He halted, seeing a reaction bubbling up in her.

  “Just look at all these men.” Her eyes lit up. “I mean, you hear the population figures, but it’s hard to imagine all these men in one place. Tall ones, short ones…young ones, old ones…rich ones…richer ones…”

  He felt—and looked—as if she’d just gored him.

  “This way,” he ground out, pulling her along toward Lloyds.

  So began a day of introductions and cab rides and sights that Mariah had never expected to see: the Royal Exchange, the Tower of London, Waterloo Bridge and Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. Everywhere they went she attracted attention; men interrupted their work in offices and tipped their hats to her in the streets. The more notice she received, the more aloof Jack became. And the more he withdrew, the more pointedly she emphasized their matrimonial mission.

  “The gentlemen at the table behind you are staring at me,” she said as they sat in a restaurant having a bit of lunch. “Exceedingly fine tailoring. Silk ties and gold pocket watches.” She lowered her voice. “Public-school products… I’d lay money on it.”

  “Shall I go over and demand to know their annual income and inspect their waistcoats for soup stains?” he said with visible annoyance.

  “Yes. Please.” She directed a small, decorous smile toward the gentlemen in question. “And collect a few ladies’ names as references.”

  He let his fork fall to his plate, drawing her attention back to him.

  “Could we have a civil meal just this once,” he said in clenched tones, “without you prowling for a mate like a lioness on the Serengeti?”

  “My, aren’t we judgmental?” she said with unshakeable equanimity. “Especially for a man whose fortunes depend on me finding a ‘mate.’”

  That set him back on his heels. He had the grace to look chagrined.

  “This is not a duty I relish,” he said bluntly. “And you make it all the more difficult with your unseemly enthusiasm for the opposite sex.”

  Mariah studied him for a moment, knowing exactly what was making him chafe and determined to see there would be no relief.

  “First I’m too reluctant and overly picky, then I’m too eager and show ‘unseemly enthusiasm.’ Make up your mind, Jack. Do you want me to find a husband or not?” She watched him struggle internally for control.

  “I believe I have made my position on that perfectly clear.”

  “Yes. But, two days ago,” she said, leaving unsaid that it was before he’d let down his guard and made love to her. Before he’d claimed her in a way no man had before or would after. She studied his frown, wishing she could pry open his head and poke around in his thoughts. She sighed. She’d have to use more conventional methods.

  “I have only nine days left to find a husband.”

  “I am fully aware of the time constraints.” He bristled.

  “Then how do you suggest I find a good match and make a ‘satisfying marriage’ if I cannot look at other men or attract their attention?” His silence was gratifying. She let it deepen a bit before delivering the coup de grâce. “Well, I suppose there is always one other option.”

  “And what would that be?” He went stock-still, listening intently, not allowing himself to meet her gaze.

  “You could marry me yourself.” In for a penny, in for a pound. She produced a demurely wicked grin. “I’m fairly certain we’re a match in the ‘satisfaction’ department.”

  His jaw loosened and his eyes widened. He looked like a man who’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

  “Breathe, Jack. In…out. In…out.” She gave his arm a squeeze and laughed.

  “It rather puts things into perspective, does it not?” She lifted her chin, knowing the seed had been planted. “Now, about these interesting gentlemen at the next—oh, dear.” Her gaze followed the trio of well-dressed men making their way to the door. She let her shoulders sag with disappointment. “They’re leaving.”

  Jack didn’t speak another word to her until they were seated in a cab and on the way back to Mayfair for her appointment with a dressmaker. And then it was only to tell her that she would have to dine alone at their hotel that evening since he had business to attend to at his club.

  In the long afternoon at the dressmaker’s and in the evening that followed, she had time to go over and over their conversation, trying to tease out the truth of his reaction from the meager clues he’d given. He was shocked and no little alarmed to find himself still wanting her and jealous of the attentions of other men. He didn’t want her flirting with, admiring or enjoying other men, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

  The question was: would Iron Jack ever do anything about it?

  Thus, she was surprised the next morning to find him entering the hotel breakfast room with a brisk step and a much brighter countenance.

  He joined her and Mercy at their table and sipped the strong black coffee the server brought with obvious satisfaction.

  “You certainly look better than you did yesterday,” she ventured.

  “A stroke of luck.” His face beamed such seductive pleasure that she was caught unprepared and blindsided by the reason for it. “I made inquiries and discovered Stephens Knitting Mills has a London office…to which Richard Stephens is moving the company.” He piled gooseberry jam onto a buttery scone and took a bite, rolling his eyes in appreciation. When he’d washed it down with coffee, he smiled. “Are you ready to meet your future husband?”

  “I HAVE an appointment at Le Beau Chapeau at eleven,” she said, declining to do more than glance out the cab windows. They were driving through the industrial east end of London, a place filled with factories, warehouses, railway spurs and the din of men and machines loading and unloading freight cars. Was it her imagination, or had dirty, low-hanging clouds deposited themselves over just this part of the city?

  “We should be finished here and back in Mayfair in time for you to spend more of the prince’s money.” He took a fortifying breath and adopted an emphatic glare. “Do try to keep the hat bill to something reasonable.”

  She refused to rise to the bait.

  “Have I mentioned how much I adore the bed linen Claridge’s uses? I inquired about it last evening, and the concierge referred me to a department store in Knightsbridge. A place called Harrods. He said they have the finest linen available. If it is good enough for visiting princes, archdukes, and ambassadors, it should be good enough for Bertie. Don’t you think?”

  She was rewarded by the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

  “It appears Stephens and I have acquaintances in common,” he declared, stacking his hands on the head of his walking stick. “It seems he was at Magdalene College in Cambridge some years back. Studied the sciences and engineering. He came not long after I left. His father died in his final year, and he returned home to take charge of the family business.”

  “A dutiful sort, then.” She refused to let his determination daunt her.

  “Diligent, I think, might fit better. A fine trait in a husband.”

  “You think so? What about a wife? Is diligence desirable in a wife?”

  “I have never given it any thought.” He looked a bit discomfited.

  “Well, perhaps it’s time you did.” She paused a beat. “You know, while we’re looking for me a husband, we could look for you a wife.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come, Jack, don’t be a stuffed shirt. You know, you’re far too serious. When you marry, you need to find
someone who can make you laugh. You need some humor in your life…along with rampaging passion, tender affection, and a walloping dose of—”

  “What I need and don’t is none of your concern,” he said irritably.

  “I was going to say common sense. But I think perhaps you have an oversupply of that already.” She studied him openly, tapping her lip thoughtfully with a finger. “I’d say you need someone with a bit of a rebellious streak. Someone who will tempt you to do things you’ve always wanted to do, but were afraid to try. Someone who will challenge you to live life on your own terms, not on your family’s.”

  “Enough.”

  The force of that word closed the discussion like a sledge hammer. His nostrils flared as he turned to look out the window.

  Her heart had just started to find a normal rhythm when the cab stopped and he burst out the door onto the street. She spent a minute gathering her composure, telling herself that he was wrestling with his conflicting impulses. But her spirits were dealt a blow when she ducked out of the carriage to find the driver waiting to assist her instead of Jack.

  He’d gone ahead to the door of a plain but imposing brown-brick building with soot-darkened windows set high in the walls. Above the modest street-level door hung a sign identifying Stephens Knitting Mills. Jack tried the handle, then knocked and informed the wool-capped workman who answered that he was there to see Mr. Stephens.

  The fellow shrugged and stepped back to allow Jack and Mariah to enter. The place was twice as big inside as it looked from the outside, and it smelled of oil, metal and freshly sawn wood. The cement floor was dotted with machinery pulled from splintered wooden crates that were stacked here and there. Several workmen stood in a surly knot around a fire in a barrel, smoking pipes and casting grim looks at the silent machinery. Directing Jack and Mariah to a set of stairs leading up to a windowed office, the fellow rejoined his comrades.

  Jack paused, looking at the stairs.

  “Perhaps you should stay here while I see if Stephens is around.”

  “I need to see him in his element, remember?” she said, eyeing the open steps and pipe-metal railing, then started the climb.

  The minute they opened the door, they heard voices and a moan coming from an inner office. Large electric bulbs dangled from the ceiling, illuminating a work area that was just short of chaotic. Half a dozen desks and drafting tables were stacked with boxes and folios and rolled plans, some of which had spilled onto the floor. Wooden filing cabinets with half opened drawers lined two of the walls, and chairs were hidden under piles of paper and the odd greasy machine part.

  “Please, sir. Let me send for a physician,” came a male voice from the inner room. “You can’t go on this way. You have to eat and sleep—”

  “I’ll take time to eat and sleep when the factory’s up and running.”

  “At this rate, you might not survive long enough to—” The speaker halted, aware of having trespassed.

  “I don’t care. I’m going to get this factory going if it kills me!”

  That raw declaration was so fraught with anguish and pain that Mariah caught Jack’s sleeve and looked up at him with alarm. He met her concern with equal uneasiness, then headed for the inner office.

  15

  “EXCUSE ME.” Jack stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight of a dismantled machine of some sort spread all over a large desk covered with open blueprints and plans. Mariah peered past his shoulder, gasping at the sight of a tall, excessively slender man braced over the desk and mechanism, looking on the verge of collapse.

  The man and his assistant glanced up with surprise.

  “We’re looking for Richard Stephens, the owner of this enterprise. Perhaps you could tell us if he is on the premises.”

  “I—I am Richard Stephens.” The scarecrow-thin fellow straightened and began to fumble with his vest buttons and to roll down his rumpled sleeves. He glanced miserably around the office, fiddling with his collar and seeming to look for his tie. It was not to be found, but he spotted his coat on a chair beneath some oily machine parts. He closed his eyes briefly and swayed, leaning on the desk. “What can I do for you?”

  For a moment Jack just stood there, taking it all in. He was not quick with spontaneous fictions, Iron Jack. But he did make a start.

  “Jack St. Lawrence.” He tipped his hat and nodded to Mariah. “This is Mrs. Eller. We are…friends of Professor Marcus Jamison of King’s College. We were in Cambridge, earlier in the week,” he said, slowing, “and…and…”

  “The professor was saying what an interesting bit of engineering your new knitting factory was,” Mariah provided, slipping past Jack into the room. “He suggested that while we are in London, we should have a look.”

  Mariah smiled to hide her concern. Stephens’s skin was gaunt and pasty, the bags under his eyes were big enough to hold a week’s laundry, and his voice rasped ominously. Just standing upright seemed to require a prodigious act of will.

  “I fear I’m not in a position to be able to show you anything concrete. There have been…delays.” He glanced at the rumpled, bespectacled clerk, who was wringing his hands as if he expected to see his employer crumple at any moment. The worry in his assistant’s face seemed to sap the last bit of energy from his pride.

  “Damn it all!” He grabbed his stomach. “The power take-offs were damaged in shipping and the gear ratios don’t mate with the pattern platens. It’s what I get for ordering from more than one machining company. The cursed things don’t—aghhh!”

  He gasped and doubled over.

  Jack and Stephens’s assistant both sprang to help and carried him over to a leather sofa buried beneath piles of paper and boxes. Jack swiped the mess onto the floor to make room for Stephens to lie down, and the assistant, Rogers by name, produced a bottle of chalky medicine from a desk drawer and spooned some into Stephens’s mouth.

  “How long has he been like this?” Jack asked Rogers.

  “I’m right here, you know,” Stephens said from between gritted teeth.

  “Goin’ on a week, sir,” Rogers answered, wagging his head. “Won’t eat nor sleep. He’s wearing himself out trying to figure out how to get the lockstitch assemblies aligned and installed.”

  “It’ll just take another day or two,” Stephens declared with a burst of defiance. “I’ll get it done. Or die trying.”

  The latter seemed all too real a possibility, Mariah thought, catching Jack’s eye, glimpsing his inner conflict and communicating her concern. He turned to stare at the disassembled machine nearby, looking as if he were grappling with, then deciding something.

  “This is a variable-speed round-knitter, yes? Electrified?” Removing his hat and dropping his gloves in it, he picked up a set of blueprints and looked them over. “Interesting.” He traced lines intently, studying them.

  “Have to…make…modifications…” Stephens said, trying to rise. Mariah moved against the edge of the sofa and pushed his shoulders down.

  “You’ll make nothing but worm food if you don’t take care of yourself,” she admonished, pulling his haunted brown eyes into hers, praying she could count on what she knew of Jack. “I’m going to send your man for some food, and you’re going to eat it and get some rest while Mr. St. Lawrence, here, looks over your plans.”

  Stephens didn’t seem convinced, so she bent close and lowered her voice, such that his eyes opened wider.

  “Cambridge man. Something of a prodigy, they tell me.” Her tone grew warm and conspiratorial. “He’s been feeling itchy and deprived. Let him have a look. It’ll do him good.”

  Then she sealed the deal with a wink.

  After Rogers left to fetch some soup and bread from a local tavern, Stephens watched Jack studying his plans and the troubled mechanism and grew anxious. Declaring that he felt much better, he tried to get to his feet.

  “Stay where you are.” Jack carried the plans to the sofa and knelt beside it to ask for clarifications. Soon they were going over the drawings and s
pecifications together, point by point.

  Mariah watched for a while, fascinated by Jack’s absorption and willingness to help, then stepped into the outer office to make herself useful. By the time Rogers returned with the food, she had removed her jacket and gloves and begun to straighten the office. She saw to it that Stephens ate his soup and bread and insisted he take some of the thick, dark ale Rogers had procured. As they all hoped, he soon surrendered to the effects of food and drink and sank into an exhausted sleep.

  “We should take him home and see him into a proper bed,” she said, smoothing Stephens’s brow, which was furrowed even in sleep.

  “You won’t ‘see’ him anywhere.” Jack stood and reached for his hat. “You have an appointment at eleven, remember?”

  “But we can’t leave him like this.” She stared at Jack in disbelief. “He needs help.”

  “He does indeed. But not the sort you excel in giving.” He held open her jacket. “At least not yet. Now get your hat and gloves.” When she balked still, he gave a long-suffering sigh. “After I deliver you into the clutches of Fashion, I’m coming back here.”

  “You are?” She stared at him, her indignation undercut.

  “It’s a puzzle, actually. And a challenge. But it seems doable. It’s been a while since I had a chance to do work of this sort.”

  Sensing that he meant every word, she slipped into her jacket and reached for her gloves. They said nothing more about Stephens or marriage or the eight days left before her deadline. By the time they reached Le Beau Chapeau she didn’t dare look at him, much less speak. Handsome, capable, honorable, compassionate—he was a good man. No, he was the best. And if he caught her gaze, her feelings for him would be plainly visible in it.

  Her mind clearly wasn’t on hats that afternoon. She scarcely recalled later what she’d purchased or how much money she’d spent. Her thoughts were set on that drafty factory building and the way Jack had volunteered to help Stephens solve his engineering problems. Was that for her benefit or Stephens’s? Did it matter which?