by Kelly Bowen
“I recall.” The baron was unsmiling.
August tried a different tack. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, but in my experience, sometimes to make something truly flourish and reach its full potential, one must occasionally look for assistance. Or break things into pieces that might prove more manageable. A change to the structure, if you will.”
“A change to the structure?” Strathmore reached for the bottle of wine and refilled his glass. “Tell me, Your Grace, is that what you suggested to Walter Merrill?”
August kept his expression pleasant. Now that was an unexpected remark. “You are, of course, speaking of the former owner of the Silver Swan.”
“Indeed.” Strathmore’s voice was devoid of any sort of challenge, as though it were merely idle curiosity that had spurred that question. August wasn’t fooled for a second.
“I believe Mr. Merrill’s refusal to adopt change led to the failure of his business, if that is what you’re asking.”
“I suppose I am.” Strathmore glanced out the window, over the darkening harbor. “Did you know that this place had been in Mr. Merrill’s family for six generations before you bought it?”
August laced his fingers together, wondering if there was an accusation in that statement. But it would seem that Strathmore had more in common with his sister than just the color of his eyes. He, like Clara, was utterly inscrutable. “I did. Though I fail to see the relevance.”
“The relevance.” The baron seemed to be mulling that over. “I would suggest such information might be relevant with respect to the pride or self-worth that ownership might bring to a man like Merrill. Did that not give you pause?”
August frowned slightly. “Good Lord. Are you suggesting that I should have left this place in the hands of Merrill for the sake of…sentimentality?”
The baron shrugged. “That might be one word for it.”
August’s frown deepened. He’d believed the man to be much wiser than that. “No. There is no room in business for sentimentality. Nor do I do things by half measures. If Mr. Merrill had any sort of pride of ownership, he had a strange way of showing it.”
“Ah.” The baron turned back from the window, his fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. August couldn’t tell if there was censure or acceptance in that single syllable, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Mr. Merrill had his chance. And he failed. But amidst that failure, I saw opportunity. I buy things with potential, Lord Strathmore. And then I make that potential happen to ensure the safety and well-being of my family.”
“Yet you did not offer Walter Merrill a partnership.”
“No.” Strathmore would know that only if he knew Merrill himself. Even given Strathmore’s ties to the community, that sort of knowledge was a little odd for a man who called London home and Dover a very temporary residence. “The level of deterioration to which this place had fallen, both physically and financially, was extreme. Mr. Merrill was not supportive of my proposed changes to correct that. Though he was certainly supportive of the bank draft with which I provided him.” He eyed the baron. “If he tells you anything different, he is lying.”
“Walter Merrill died last year. Shot by soldiers while sneaking through the dark with a tub of smuggled French brandy strapped to his back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Strathmore lifted his eyes to August’s. “I’m sure.”
August met his dark gaze, unhappy with the direction the conversation had taken. He’d hoped to plant the seeds of a solution to the Haywards’ financial difficulties, but when it came to business, it would seem the baron had some convictions and ideals that were going to prove difficult. Lord Strathmore seemed to be a man who would have to be backed into a corner first, the very real threat of total bankruptcy of his family presented before he started to see things the way August wished him to.
“Strathmore Shipping is not for sale, Your Grace.” It came from Clara, and it was so quiet, August almost didn’t hear it.
“I beg your pardon?” August turned toward her.
Her face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap. “It’s what you came to Dover for, isn’t it?”
* * *
You will not meet a more ruthless, cunning adversary than Holloway when he goes after something he wants.
It was what Harland had told her. Clara had heard him, but she hadn’t listened. Not carefully enough.
But she had listened as she sat at that damn table tonight as August Faulkner made it clear why he was really here. Made it clear why he had really sought her out that day at the museum and why he had followed her to Dover. No, Clara amended, it wasn’t she he’d been seeking. It had been Harland all along. He’d asked after Harland all along. She just hadn’t paid attention.
She was such a fool. Clara had allowed herself to believe that he had really come to Avondale for Anne, because she had wanted to believe in the caring brother and not the ruthless adversary. And worse, she had completely fallen for every charmed word that had slipped from his silvered tongue and convinced her that he truly found her—what had he said? Extraordinary. She had kissed him. Would have done far more than kiss him.
Mortification and fury crowded into her chest, and she welcomed them. They didn’t allow room for the sadness and disappointment that weren’t welcome at all.
He buys broken things and breaks them apart further before building them back up into profitable ventures.
Harland had said that too. Things like the Silver Swan. Like Strathmore Shipping.
The duke’s expression was closed, his eyes shuttered and his lips thinned. “Cl—Miss Hayward, I—”
“Yes or no, Your Grace,” Clara hissed.
Holloway’s features tightened even more. “The possibility came up.”
“While you were dabbling in the tobacco trade?” Clara sneered, wondering for a moment if she shouldn’t leave now. Before she said something that she would really regret.
From across the table, Harland laced his fingers together. “Good heavens, Your Grace, is that what you call what you do in the tobacco trade? Dabbling?” He glanced at Clara. “Did you know that Holloway is the largest importer of tobacco in southern England?”
His empire is bigger than most people realize.
Clara swallowed with difficulty, the wine turning sour in her gut. That certainly explained how he had discovered their financial struggles. If Holloway was that deeply entrenched in import, then he would have access to all sorts of information when it came to the London docks. She was such an idiot.
Holloway stared stonily back at her brother. “You are unusually well informed, Lord Strathmore.”
“And so, apparently, are you.”
“You have damaged, idle ships that will rot before you can repair and crew them. Without the capital to correct that, it will be difficult to recover. I am prepared to offer you a very fair price—”
“No.” Harland said. “We are the custodians of the legacy left to us. We will ensure that it survives and, with time, continues to flourish, by whatever means necessary. It is not something that can simply be disposed of on a whim so that we might indulge in personal fancies or because it becomes difficult.” He paused. “I can assure you, Your Grace, we have matters well in hand.”
“Your Grace, your Lordship, pardon my intrusion.” A uniformed servant suddenly appeared at Harland’s shoulder carrying a salver. “A message for Lord Strathmore just delivered,” he said, holding out the small tray. “I am made to understand it is an emergency.”
Harland’s eyes finally slid from August as he took the note, cracking a plain red blob of sealing wax. He scanned the message, then stuffed the paper inside his coat.
“Do you wish to send a reply?” the server asked. “The messenger is waiting just outside the tavern.”
“No need. I’m on my way.”
“Very good, Lord Strathmore.” The man departed with brisk efficiency.
“I have to go,” Harland said unapol
ogetically. He glanced at Clara.
“I’ll see her safely home,” August said without looking at her.
“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace,” Clara replied through gritted teeth. “I’ll make my own arrangements. I’ve done it many times.”
“I insist.” The duke wasn’t budging.
Harland’s eyes flickered between Holloway and Clara. She bit her tongue against a scathing retort. Her brother would expect her to be angry at the duke’s duplicity, but not irrationally so. And she had no desire to explain the extent of it. She just wanted to be left alone. Long enough to lick her wounds and collect what was left of her dignity.
“Very well.” Harland turned his attention toward the duke once more. “I trust we have made our position clear regarding Strathmore Shipping,” he said coolly.
“You have.” Holloway had yet to look at her.
“Good. Then I bid you a good night, Clara. Your Grace.”
Clara watched as Harland took his leave. “It never would have worked, you know,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Holloway finally turned to her.
“Using me to get to my brother. Did you think that if you could get me into your bed, I would put a favorable word in my brother’s ear?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “What happened between you and me had nothing to do with—”
Clara laughed, but it was without humor. “Save your breath, Your Grace. You came here because you discovered our family company was struggling and wanted it for yourself.”
He held her eyes with his. “That was one of the reasons,” he said finally.
She already knew that, but the confirmation was like a slap. “Everything has been contrived, hasn’t it?” Clara asked, feeling almost ill. “Your sudden appearance at the museum. Your convenient service to Rivers. Your concern over your sister. Us—”
“No. I care a great deal about Anne.” He reached for her hand. “I care about you. You and I were—”
“A mistake.” Clara snatched her hand away. “Just a titillating diversion for you while you pursued what you really wanted.”
The duke looked away, his face set in hard lines. “No.”
“I don’t understand you,” Clara said, forcing herself to keep her voice down, aware that they were still in a very public setting. “You have everything. Money, power, position. Yet you come after us like a vulture circling a wounded animal.” She fought for composure. “When is enough enough for you?”
He turned back to her. “Never.” The answer was swift and harsh. “Only a fool rests on his laurels.”
Well, at least he was finally being honest. But it was too late. Clara stood, the duke rising as well.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to Avondale.” She started toward the door.
“I’ll see you home.” Holloway was on her heels.
“Please don’t do me any more favors,” Clara said, threading her way out into the long shadows of the evening. She sucked in a deep, steadying breath of cool night air.
“I will see you home,” the duke repeated, already signaling Miss Baker, who was hurrying across the yard.
She shook her head. “I—”
“I’ll pick you up over my shoulder and put you in that damn barouche if I have to.”
“Fine.” Clara suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue.
“I’m not letting you go, Clara.”
An empty chasm suddenly opened up in the center of her anger, dark with desolation. “I was never yours in the first place.”
Chapter 11
Given the way August had thrown himself into the evaluation of the Avondale estate, one would surmise that he owned it. Or that he was planning to.
Never had he immersed himself more deeply in assessments of soil quality and appraisals of forage crops. Estimations of lambing schedules and projections of breeding seasons. And of course, the potential costs and revenues from all of it put together. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing could make him forget the mess he had created at the Silver Swan. Never in his life had he handled anything as badly as he had handled his inquiries into Strathmore Shipping. And that knowledge had put him in a dark, dangerous mood this morning.
This was why August never mixed business with pleasure. Not that he’d ever really had the opportunity to do so in the past, but he should have been more careful. Instead he’d let his libido trump his intelligence and had blundered into another conversation that, in hindsight, he had been ill prepared for. Again.
The Haywards were nothing like the other entitled lords and ladies August endured and courted in London, something he’d known but had failed to truly comprehend until it was too late. He’d underestimated both the baron and Clara like a rank amateur. And now he found himself in a tangled mess of desire and ambition with no idea how to extract himself.
Did you think that if you could get me into your bed, I would put a favorable word in my brother’s ear?
August flinched as Clara’s words ran through his head again.
Those words had sat uncomfortably on his mind all night and all morning, adding to the foulness of his mood. Those words made him want to seek her out and apologize. Explain yet again that his interest in Strathmore Shipping had nothing to do with his interest in her. The urge was as unnerving as it was insupportable, because August Faulkner did not need to explain anything to anyone. He did what he needed to do to keep his family safe and financially secure without apology. He would never apologize for that.
But for whatever reason, the usual rules did not seem to apply when it came to Clara Hayward. And all of it was made even more complicated by the fact that the deed to Haverhall sat on his desk. She was slipping through his fingers again. And he had no idea what to do without risking the complete destruction of a relationship that was already in tatters. Which made his mood even darker.
The sound of a carriage rattling up the drive distracted him from his thoughts. He straightened where he had been leaning, near the gate of the west sheep enclosure, and idly followed the equipage with his eyes as it stopped in front of Avondale. His own ride home with Clara had been taut with silence, neither finding any words that—
August’s hand slipped from the gate as the occupant of the carriage emerged, dressed like a bloody popinjay in an orange coat of a hue most definitely not found in nature. The bright-yellow embroidery splashed all over the front was visible from where August stood. He felt his jaw slacken even as the rest of his body went rigid.
“Goddammit,” August cursed sharply under his breath. What the hell was Mathias Stilton doing here? At Avondale? Now?
August started stalking toward the manor. Dover was a long way from London, and there was no way in hell that this was a casual social call, no matter how Mathias Stilton might try to frame it. The man was here for a reason. August of all people knew that. He just wasn’t sure what that reason might be.
Though he had a pretty good idea.
August ground his teeth. No matter what had happened between them last night, Clara Hayward was his.
* * *
“A gentleman to see you, Miss Hayward.”
Clara’s head snapped up from where it had been bent over the pages of her book. The butler was standing patiently just inside the door of the library, his face expressionless. Clara snapped her book shut irritably, hating the unwanted spurt of expectation that had shot through her at the announcement. Whoever was here to see her, it wasn’t August. Which suited her just fine. He had shown his true colors last night, proving himself as manipulative and ruthless as Harland had said. In the cold light of day, she reasoned that it was just as well her eyes had been opened when they had, before she had managed to do something monumentally stupid. Like become completely smitten.
“Who is it?” Harland asked from where he stood, at one of the long tables. Clara had been pleasantly surprised when she had found her brother in the library, though Harland had thus far proven a poor conversation
alist, his attention focused on a pile of what looked like old maps of the county coast.
“A Mr. Mathias Stilton,” the butler replied.
Harland’s brows shot up as he looked at Clara in question.
“Tabby mentioned he had stopped by earlier,” Clara told him with a small frown. “I had forgotten.”
“Long way from the British Museum,” he murmured.
“He told Tabby he was visiting friends.”
The butler cleared his throat. “Shall I tell the gentleman you are receiving, Miss Hayward?”
“Of course. Show him to the library.” She wasn’t expected to meet with her students in Dover for another two hours. Entertaining Mathias Stilton was the last thing she felt like doing, but whatever he had to say surely wouldn’t take long.
The butler disappeared and Clara set her book aside, pushing herself to her feet.
“You have yet to mention the Silver Swan,” Harland remarked casually.
Clara stared out the long library window, her fingers clenching in the folds of her skirts. She forced them to relax. “I think we made ourselves abundantly clear to His Grace that we had no interest in selling Strathmore Shipping. I can’t see it being a problem any further.” Because for the rest of Holloway’s stay, Clara had every intention of avoiding him completely.
“Mmm. I agree. I was, however, referring to the fact that the man owns the bloody inn and tavern. The very place where his sister—your student—is even now toiling away under the watchful eye of Monsieur Charleaux.”
Right. That.
“Lady Anne is aware that it is her brother who owns it?”
“I believe so.”
“Then perhaps she should have mentioned it to you at the very beginning?”
Clara frowned. “Perhaps.”
“It might be best to tell Charleaux who his student really is,” Harland prodded. “Sooner rather than later.”
“Yes.” As per custom, Anne had been introduced only as Miss Anne in the tavern. Not Miss Faulkner, not Lady Anne, and most certainly not Lady Anne Faulkner, sister to the Duke of Holloway.
