Willow looked away. “Of course I will tell him. Immediately, in fact. I’ve always said I would not misrepresent the truth.”
The truth, of course, was the childhood illness that left Willow unable to bear children.
“However,” Willow continued slowly, “it is my great hope that intimate . . . obligations will not be part of our arrangement.”
Sabine made a scoffing noise.
Willow rubbed at an ink stain on her hand. “There is no guarantee, of course. But these men are meant to be out of the country most of our lives. How much of an issue can it be?”
Conjugal relations and children were variables that Willow was not sure she could stipulate. She had shoved aside the notion of the . . . er, marital bed until . . . well, until they were a bit further along in the process.
She looked back to see her friends share a glance, but Sabine leaned down to read the advertisement again. “You sound very determined,” said her friend, finally. “Although I cannot say I am surprised. When you get an idea into your head, you are not one to let it die a natural death, are you?”
“But don’t you see?” said Willow. “This is so much more than an idea. An idea was to paint the dining room orange. An idea was to rebuild the stairs in marble tile. This is the admission to the entire Rest of My Life.”
Sabine chuckled sadly. “But you aren’t being terrorized by a lunatic uncle. Or expecting a child with no father.” She and Willow glanced at Tessa. Rarely did they discuss her predicament in as many words. Tessa dropped her head back and slowly closed her eyes.
“No,” said Willow. “What I seek is the wildest, most brilliant dream I’ve ever known.”
“You want it that bad, do you?”
“It’s only been my passion for as long as I can remember.” Willow paused, waiting for some response. Her friends looked away.
She said, “If I am able to get to London, I will have come all the way back around, don’t you see? Aunt Mary was the start of everything. She was the one who took me in hand, years ago, and taught me how to look for beauty in all things, to curate it, and to apply it to the rooms in which we sleep and eat and live. It’s one thing to be the relation of renowned designers such as Aunt Mary and Uncle Arthur, but to have the two of them invite me to live in their home and be their apprentice? Why, over the next five years, they will design the interiors of the finest, most modern new homes in the city. They could have chosen anyone to assist them, anyone at all, but they chose me. Me.”
“But you’ve not even seen these homes your aunt and uncle will design,” said Sabine. “You’ve not even seen the home in which you are inviting us all to move and start this new life.”
“I don’t need to see them,” said Willow. “If my aunt and uncle say that Belgravia is the height of modish luxury, it will be. The homes of society’s elite are their stock-in-trade. And honestly, I don’t care. Anything would be better than redesigning the same rooms of Leland Park again and again.”
Tessa looked over. “What a great injustice that your mother will not simply allow you to go. Why must you enlist a strange man and marry him, simply to live with your aunt?”
Willow waved the idea away. “Aunt Mary went against the family wishes and married a commoner. She’s been shunned for years. My mother won’t speak of her. It makes no difference that my uncle is a famed furniture craftsman, sought after by the wealthiest families. The notion of my relocating to London as their apprentice is unconscionable.”
Willow drifted to the window and peered out. “As long as I am under my mother’s purview, Belgravia, the design work, leaving Surrey—it is a locked door.” She turned back. “Unless I become a married woman who makes her own decisions. Unless I can come and go as I please—a bride with a long-lost husband, and happily so, living in Belgravia, making all my dreams come true.”
The room was silent again. Sabine walked back to the advert and read it over. Tessa traced a swirly line in the dark-blue velvet of her chair. After a moment, Tessa asked, “What if no one applies, toad or no toad? No one at all?”
Willow shook her head. “This will not happen. We’ve one circumstance working in our favor, and that is the money.” She walked to the massive desk and leaned against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “Life may have disappointed us, each in our own way, but the money, I’m confident, will not let us down.”
***
Brent Caulder, the Earl of Cassin, wound his way through the slouching sailors of the Gull and Trident, searching for his partners in the smoky gloom.
“Evenin’, your lordship,” slurred a grime-streaked sailor, swaying in the seat. “Lookin’ for the captain, are ye?”
The earl nodded, trying to place the man among their last crew. While his partner Joseph Chance knew each man by name, and his other partner, Jon Stoker, knew them by trade, they all looked the same to Cassin. His mind was already filled to overflowing with the names and faces of men who considered him their leader and employer, but these men lived two hundred miles away, in Yorkshire, and they waited for him to lead them or employee them. It was a struggle to add twenty more.
The sailor at the door didn’t seem to mind, and he grinned, happy in his drink. He jerked his chin to a rear table, half obscured by the belching hearth. “Not drunk enough yet, I reckon. They’ve only just come in.” He brought the tankard to his mouth, sloshing his beard with foam.
Cassin nodded again and started for the table, stepping over boots and sleeping dogs. Joseph, he now saw, was blocked from view by a trio of barmaids, while Stoker sprawled across two chairs and a trunk, his hat covering his eyes.
“A word, if you please,” Cassin said when he reached them. He scooped up four empty tankards and handed them to the maids. “Ladies, may I trouble you?”
“Bloody hell, Cassin,” said Joseph, scooting back his chair, “I was in the midst of a conversation.”
“No, you were not.”
“The bleeding hell I wasn’t.”
“Flirtation is not a conversation. It’s a transaction.”
“Speak for yourself, Cassin. I don’t rely on negotiation to get a woman into bed.”
“Nor do you rely on speech,” said Jon Stoker from beneath the brim of his hat. Joseph’s blue eyes had always done the talking for him.
The women accepted the empty tankards and sauntered away while Cassin wiped the wet table with his sleeve.
“Read,” he said, spreading a rolling expanse of parchment next to the dim candle. He took coins from his pockets to weight the corners.
“What’s this?” asked Joseph. “An apothecary cure for your eternal bad mood?”
“Read,” repeated Cassin, thumping the parchment with his finger.
Something about his tone pricked their attention, and Joseph leaned in. Stoker slid his boots from the trunk one by one, taking his time, slouching forward.
“Where did you find this?” asked Joseph.
“Posted above the trough in Redmond Street.”
“Redmond?” mused Joseph. “I know the spot. Wall is littered with bills and notices.”
Stoker shook his head and returned his boots to the trunk. “It’s a fabrication.”
“We’ve no idea what it is,” said Cassin.
“I’d like to know the motive, if it’s a fabrication,” said Joseph. “What value would this”—he leaned in and read the name from the bottom line—“W. J. Hunnicut glean by offering money if he doesn’t have it? Why bother?”
“To steal ideas,” said Stoker, resettling his hat. “Trade secrets.”
“Why does any investor contribute to an endeavor?” said Cassin. “To multiply his money when the investment pays off.”
“Do you know him, Cassin?” asked Joseph. “W. J. Hunnicut?”
Cassin shook his head. He’d assured his friends when he joined the partnership that, despite being an earl, he knew few men among society’s elite. They’d brought him into the business anyway, the poor sods.
Their loose collaboration amounted to Stoker
’s ownership of a fast ship and his proficiency as captain, Joseph’s brains and business acumen, and Cassin’s legitimacy as an earl. Albeit an impoverished one. Who hadn’t passed time in London in years. But they had been friends since university, and their newly minted partnership, not even a year old, was built on loyalty and shared history.
Their most bankable asset was a shared commodity they’d won in a card game and split three ways. Joseph had played the winning hand, Stoker had loaned him the money, and Cassin had relentlessly pursued the loser, a small-time smuggler and sometime pirate known for shirking his debts. Cassin had hounded him until he’d provided the actual printed deed to the spoils—a small island in the Caribbean Sea, off the coast of Barbadoes.
As partnerships went, Cassin brought the least to the table. But Stoker and Joseph Chance were lowborn scrappers who had risen up in the world, and they were unduly impressed with the title of earl. Stoker and Chance saw Cassin’s title as an open door to richer, more influential clients and investors.
Cassin was doubtful, to say the least, but he would be forever grateful they’d cut him in. Especially now, considering the potential of the island they had won on a lucky turn of cards. Especially if he could bag this investor.
“But why the emphasis on foreign work?” Joseph continued, studying the advertisement again. “Says it in four or five different ways.”
“Perhaps he’s grown weary of the opportunities in England.” Cassin pulled out a chair. “Perhaps he himself is of foreign birth. Perhaps, like us, he knows that the future of successful commerce is beyond this island.”
“Strong words from someone whose own future in this partnership is limited to the first windfall,” said Stoker.
“A windfall I’ve yet to see.” Cassin sighed. He leaned back in his chair and stared down at the advertisement. “I’ve no doubt that the two of you will eventually become richer than your wildest dreams, but I don’t have the leisure of sailing ’round the world indefinitely, waiting for this fortune to come to pass. I’ve responsibilities, as you well know.” He looked back and forth between his friends. “My time is already running out.”
Joseph looked up. “But could it be possible? That the money would be this simple to get?” He read from the advertisement: “ ‘A modest fortune,’ it says. How much could he mean?”
Stoker sat up again. “Not enough to print this advertisement properly. With a press. On good paper.” He ran a finger along the script. “Advertisement’s been hand-lettered on parchment.”
“So it is,” sighed Cassin. He took up the sheet. “So what?”
“Did anyone see you pull it down?” asked Joseph.
Cassin shrugged, rolling up the advert. “It’s mine now—the advertisement and the money it will bring.”
“It’s ours, you mean,” said Stoker. “The money would be ours.”
Cassin smiled. “So you are interested?”
“I’m the captain of the bloody ship,” Stoker said. “You deal with the investments.”
He looked back and forth between his partners. “What’s the risk in trying?”
Joseph scratched his head. “Revealing our plans for the island to a competitor. Being made fools if the advert turns out to be a trick or a fabrication, as Stoker said.”
“So nothing, effectively,” said Cassin. “Low risk—very low.”
Stoker laughed. “Aren’t you an eager lad?”
“Eager does not begin to describe what I am.” Cassin sighed. “I’ve been away from home for too many months, with too little to show for the time away. People rely on me.”
“And now you would add Mr. W. J. Hunnicut to that list?” asked Stoker. “Investors expect returns on their money, don’t they?”
“Yes, and the profits from the island are incalculable,” said Cassin. “Joseph has done the projections. All we lack is a financier.” He tucked the advertisement in his coat. “And now, it would appear we have one. If we’re lucky. If we can sell him on the idea.”
“He’s right,” said Joseph. “If it’s authentic, an offer like this is exactly what we’ve been looking for.”
“Tell me this,” said Stoker. “What is a ‘gentleman sailor’?”
“I am,” said Cassin immediately. “I am a gentleman sailor. I’m a bloody earl, and I’ve been sailing with you lot since . . . what was it? June?”
“Well, I’m no gentleman,” said Stoker.
“Nor I,” said Joseph.
“Very well,” said Cassin, “you are ‘Entrepreneurs with International Interests.’ You are ‘Professional Travelers.’ I don’t care how you refer to yourselves, nor do I care if W. J. Hunnicut thinks you are gentlemen or sailors or the bloody Spanish Armada. I only care that he gives us the money so we may mine the island before the market floods, and we’re too late.”
“Why not?” asked Joseph, leaning back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I can hardly see the harm in writing to the bloke to introduce the idea.”
Cassin shook his head. “No. No letter. There’s no time to exchange correspondence with an old man in godforsaken Surrey. And Stoker is correct: It’s reckless to put pen to paper and describe the potential of the island, only to post it to a stranger.” He kicked Stoker’s leg and gestured for him to sit up.
Leaning in, Cassin spoke low. “We’ll travel in person to Pixham, wherever the devil it is, and see for ourselves. Meet the bloke. Look him in the bloody eye. If W. J. Hunnicut is an honest man with legitimate resources, we’ll know it.”
“And if not?” asked Stoker.
“If not,” said Cassin, “then you may buy me out of the partnership, and I’ll return to Yorkshire. With nothing.”
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen days after Lady Willow dispatched Mr. Fisk to London with the advertisement, a lone man arrived on horseback to Leland Park.
“That’s odd,” Willow said, pausing near the window to her workshop. She wrenched open the pane, watching the rider gallop the long, tree-lined drive that stretched from the lane to the manor house.
Willow had spent the morning in the workshop, directing Mr. Simms as he recovered a library chair with bright puce velvet she had ordered from Portugal. Tessa had come for luncheon and never left. Her friend reclined on the chaise longue that would be next to receive the new fabric. It was a pleasant afternoon, unseasonably warm for October, and Tessa had propped open the door to allow for a breeze. The stone outbuilding had been a falconry before Willow had requisitioned it as her workshop, and warm days still evoked the smell of feathers. A fat mama cat stretched half in, half out of the open door while her kittens bounded to and fro.
“What’s odd?” asked Tessa. She dangled a piece of velvet over the alert gaze of a kitten.
“A man on horseback,” said Willow. “Approaching the house.”
“Calling on your mother at the stables, no doubt.”
Willow shook her head. “He is not here about horses, I believe. I’ve never seen him before. And my mother takes appointments in the mornings, when horses are more spirited and there is less chance of rain.”
“Oh, has she bought another stallion? If so, my brothers will call immediately.”
“I cannot say,” Willow mumbled, looking closer. Now the rider slowed to a canter in the circle drive and stared up at the house. She knew enough about horses to see that his mount was strong and solid, a stallion. The animal spun and sidestepped as the man reined it in with skill.
Not a horse person, she thought idly, watching him. Her eyes narrowed. Of course there was no evidence of this; every manner of equine enthusiast called upon the Leland Park stables weekly, sometimes every day, and the disparity in appearance from buyer to breeder was great. And yet . . .
Willow looked again. Two grooms dashed to take his horse as he dismounted, and there was Mr. Fisk, rising up from the flower beds to shade his eyes from the sun. Willow squinted too, trying to discern the man’s age, the quality of his coat and hat, to see his face.
Surely not, she tho
ught. Surely, surely not.
“But is it Mr. Cahill?” asked Tessa, speaking of an elderly neighbor.
“No. Not Cahill,” said Willow. Their neighbor was tall but as thin as a leather strap. This man was substantial. Broad shouldered and thick chested. He dropped from his horse with a thud and stood solidly, scanning the Leland Park grounds.
“Then who?” said Tessa. “Willow, you should see your face.”
Willow shook her head. “Will you help me pick the sawdust from my hair?” She yanked at her muslin apron, pulling it off, and worked the scarf from her head.
“It couldn’t be your brother,” said Tessa. “You’ve said he would not return to England until summer.”
“No,” she said. “Not Phillip.”
Tessa joined her at the window, and they stared as the man clipped up the front steps. Mr. Fisk abandoned the flower bed to greet him.
Thank God for Mr. Fisk, Willow thought. Her late father’s valet had the uncanny ability to be everywhere and nowhere, depending on what any situation required. His usefulness was surpassed only by his loyalty.
Tessa cocked her head. “Oh,” she said, studying the guest. After a beat, she repeated, “Oh.”
So Willow had not imagined it. There was some remarkable sort of . . . differentness about the guest. Tessa was acutely attuned to remarkable men.
Willow, on the other hand, had trained herself to take little notice of men in general and remarkable men in particular. But she could easily spot the odd or the unlikely, and there was something distinctively out of the ordinary about the rider who now stood on her front steps.
While the man spoke to Mr. Fisk, the massive oak front door swung wide, revealing Abbott, the butler. Willow moaned. Where Mr. Fisk could smooth over any situation and buy time, Mr. Abbott disrupted and dismissed.
Mr. Fisk ignored the butler and carried on, gesturing and nodding and ultimately stepping around Abbott and beckoning the man to follow him inside the house.
Willow’s heart jumped again. Now the door shut in the butler’s face, and he stood abandoned on the stoop. He pivoted and glared in the direction of Willow’s workshop. With a grim expression, the butler began the long, determined glide to her.
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