Читать книгу His Unsuitable Viscountess - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 8

Ben stared at the sword where it lay. Disbelief swiftly followed by horror coursed through him. He went over the moves in his mind. It should have been impossible, but the evidence stared at him, quivering in the black bonnet. Mrs Blackwell had not boasted. He’d lost his sword.

He glanced at her, ready for tears or possibly hysterics at the loss of a bonnet. A small infectious bubble of laughter escaped from her covered mouth, swiftly followed by another larger one.

To Ben’s surprise, a laugh loud and long exploded from him in response to the joyous sound of Mrs Blackwell’s mirth. The sound made him pause. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spontaneously laughed with a woman. Probably before Alice died. He hadn’t laughed much since then, and certainly not this all-consuming belly laugh.

‘Oh, dear.’ She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bonnet. You should have seen your expression when the sword flew out of your hand. Priceless.’

He sobered immediately. He’d misjudged her and over-estimated his own skill. He pulled his sword out of the now ruined bonnet. ‘I owe you a bonnet and an apology. I was insufferably rude and pompous. It was uncalled for.’

She shook her head. ‘The bonnet was far from my favourite, but it seemed appropriate to wear it. You owe me nothing and I thank you for the apology.’

‘Appropriate to wear?’ Ben eyed the hat. Rather funereal. The back of his neck prickled. What did Mrs Blackwell want to see Viv about?

‘One must look proper when one makes an important business call.’

Ben regarded her upturned face, flushed from their exertions. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shone the colour of port. Mrs Blackwell was far more attractive than he’d first considered. He should send her away right now. It was the correct thing to do. But she intrigued him. He wanted to learn her secret. Why was Mrs Blackwell desperate, and why was Viv the only person who could help her?

‘Viv remains, alas, unavailable. Can I assist you with this mysterious matter?’

Eleanor gulped. Lord Whittonstall’s words pounded through her brain—can I assist you? She wasn’t even going to think about confessing her predicament to Lord Whittonstall. Or asking for his help. She had nothing to offer him.

‘It must be Sir Vivian,’ Eleanor said, her stomach clenching. She hated the way she felt as if an opportunity had slipped past. ‘It has to be him and no other.’

‘You are doomed to disappointment.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Then we must agree to disagree.’

Eleanor bit her lip. She had said the wrong thing—reminding him about the meeting, about why she was here. That moment of camaraderie and laughter they had shared vanished. And she wanted it back. She had to find a way before he manoeuvred her out through the door and her chance to ask Sir Vivian slipped away for good.

‘Shall we fight again?’ she asked as brightly as she could. ‘Best out of three? Give you a chance to prove that it was luck on my part?’

‘I know when to admit my mistakes.’ He raised his rapier in a gesture of respect.

She returned the gesture, ending the bout. She searched her mind for another excuse to stay, but she seemed fresh out of ideas.

‘I must congratulate you, Mrs Blackwell. You are a worthy opponent. And your swords are far more than mere decoration for the well-dressed gentleman.’

He took a step closer to her. Her sword would have dropped to the ground if he had not taken it from her slack grasp. He placed it beside his.

‘We won’t need these.’

‘Yes. I believe I have proved my point.’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.

He stood a few inches taller than she was, but not too tall. His eyes were not coal-black, as she’d originally supposed, but full of a thousand different colours from the deepest black to light grey and every colour in between.

Her heart pounded in her ears and she knew she was far too breathless, far too aware of him as a man rather than as an opponent.

‘You are a far better swordswoman than I considered possible.’ His voice held a new rich note that flowed over her, warming her to the tips of her toes.

‘Fancy that. You admitting defeat so easily.’ She attempted a little laugh but it came out far too high. She winced and studied the folds of his cravat. Intently.

‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’

Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.

‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.

This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.

She lifted her eyes.

Their gaze locked. He lifted a hand and touched her forearm.

Somewhere a door banged, bringing her back to reality.

Eleanor jumped backwards. Shocked. She had nearly stepped straight into Lord Whittonstall’s arms and destroyed everything she held dear.

Her proposal to Sir Vivian needed to happen. It was her best chance of securing Moles’ future. Everything would be lost if she was discovered in this man’s arms. Her employees—the men who literally sweated over an open fire to make the swords—depended on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?

He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.

She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’

‘Is fencing all you can think about?’

His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.

‘It will do for now.’

‘And for later?’

She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.

‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.

His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’

She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.

‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’

‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’

His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.

‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’

‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.

‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’

Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’

Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.

Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.

She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.

She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.

She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.

‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’

Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were Sir Vivian’s voice, his mincing gestures with his hands, and the overly fussy way he wore his cravat. And he had the beginnings of a bald patch. He repulsed her. Utterly and completely repulsed her.

She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.

How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?

She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.

It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.

Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.

Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.

Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.

It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.

‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’

She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.

Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.

‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’

‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’

‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!

‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.

‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret that you were caused even a moment’s discomfort about the contents of your library.’

Sir Vivian pursed his lips. ‘And did you succeed in changing his view? My cousin’s views are notoriously steadfast.’

‘I relieved him of his sword. It became embedded in my bonnet.’ She held up her bonnet and wiggled her fingers through the gash.

‘Ben lost his sword?’ Sir Vivian shook his head. ‘Impossible. You are seeking to make fun of me.’

‘But true,’ Lord Whittonstall commented. ‘Mrs Blackwell accomplished it, proving the value of her sword design and the defects of my sword grip. I humbly apologise, Viv, for thinking your choice of sword was more to do with fashion than function.’

A warm glow filled Eleanor at Lord Whittonstall’s unexpected words.

Sir Vivian raised his quizzing glass. ‘Ben is the best swordsman I know. Equal to the great Henry Angelo. The last time you lost a sword was at Eton, Ben.’

‘Just afterwards. In Bath. Exaggeration does no one credit, Viv.’

Lord Whittonstall made a bow while his eyes danced. Eleanor wondered why she had thought them cold and lifeless. Or lacking in passion.

‘Mrs Blackwell will tell you that I made elemental mistakes with my grip and anyone who knew could exploit the weakness. Mrs Blackwell does possess more than a modicum of skill.’

‘I saw an opportunity and took it. Luck.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Once you correct your grip you will be a formidable opponent.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it. It will be the sword.’ Sir Vivian rubbed his hands together. ‘Will I have a chance of beating my cousin as well?’

‘It is Moles’ latest design,’ Eleanor said, suddenly knowing what she had to say—and why. ‘It combines practicality with a certain flair for the discerning gentleman, such as yourself.’

‘Why give it to me for my birthday now? My birthday isn’t for another two months.’

Eleanor winced. That long? ‘I know what … what an influential figure you are. How people look up to you and admire your taste. I hope you will help spread the word about our new design, and I wanted to take the opportunity of your thirtieth birthday to ask for your assistance … with the matter. Personally. While you are still up here in the north. Rather than sending a note which might get mislaid when you are in London.’

‘You want me to use this sword and give your creation the exposure it needs? Like the great Beau does for his tailors?’

‘Yes, precisely.’ Eleanor kept her head up as sweat started to trickle down the back of her neck. He’d accepted her explanation. There was no need to linger. She could go and never see Lord Whittonstall again. Never know if he would have kissed her or if it had been a figment of her imagination. ‘I know how much influence you have with those who really matter. A number of people have mentioned your name when they have purchased one of our swords.’

She breathed slightly easier. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. Sir Vivian had been influential in getting some custom in.

Sir Vivian turned the sword over in his hands. His cheeks went quite pink. ‘You best be on guard, Ben. I shall beat you every time now. No one will believe a harridan like Mrs Blackwell gave me a sword! But she has, and she has entrusted me to spread the word.’

Lord Whittonstall coughed. Pointedly.

Sir Vivian hung his head. ‘Sometimes my poor tongue gets ahead of my brain, my dear Mrs Blackwell. Far too much port last night. You could never be a harridan. It is simply your reputation that is quite fearsome. It is not every day one encounters a woman sword-maker—a woman who forges swords with a delicate hand.’

Eleanor forced a smile. So she had a reputation as a harridan? At least she’d been saved from suffering the biggest humiliation of her life. All she wanted to do now was slink off and lick her wounded pride. Tomorrow she’d puzzle out some suitable man to marry her. ‘Now that I have said my little piece, I should go.’

Lord Whittonstall’s large hand clamped about her elbow, pinning her to her spot. ‘And this is all you came to say?’

‘Yes. As Sir Vivian has quite clearly said, he would not have believed it if I left the sword. I had to have his agreement, and now I have it.’

His gaze became more hooded and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw through her tale. That he’d heard her rehearsing her proposal when she’d thought she was alone.

‘And you will show me the move that bested my cousin?’ Sir Vivian asked. ‘Before you depart?’

‘I can show you that,’ Lord Whittonstall said. ‘We have undoubtedly delayed Mrs Blackwell for far too long.’

‘I do have a business to run.’ Eleanor paused in the doorway. ‘Good day to you both.’

‘Mrs Blackwell, there will be a rematch. I have my reputation to think of.’

Eleanor ignored the tremor of excitement. Fencing with Lord Whittonstall was off the agenda. It would only lead to heartache. She had other more important things to think about. And she would never forget her quest again.

Ben watched Viv march around the terrace, making various lunges at unsuspecting bushes.

‘Would you mind telling me what is going on? You avoided my questions all over luncheon. Fobbing me off with nonsensical answers.’

Viv completed his lunge. ‘I am sure it is as Mrs Blackwell indicated. She has seen how much business I have sent her way and wants me to help her.’

‘You may drop the pretence. How bad are your finances?’

Viv made a disgusted noise. ‘We don’t all have your financial acumen, Ben. If you weren’t my cousin I’d hate you. What with your title, your fortune and your excellent looks. Plus a reputation for lively and intelligent conversation.’

‘That would be the side of me the public sees. My father died before I was born and my pregnant wife in a tragic accident. My fortune was squandered by rapacious financiers that my mother mistakenly trusted. I worked hard to rescue it.’

Viv dropped his gaze. ‘My debts will be paid some time. I have never not paid a debt of honour. Temporary cash problem.’

‘Is it that bad, Viv?’

‘My luck has changed, Ben.’ Viv poured two glasses of port and held one out to him.

Ben shook his head. Viv downed both of them in quick succession.

‘Mrs Blackwell came here for another purpose,’ Ben said, tapping his fingers together. ‘Her pretty speech about you being a rival to the great Beau was concocted on the spot. Nobody could take that assertion seriously. Before she knew I was there I overheard her practising a speech to be directed at you. And when I tried to send her on her way she insisted it was imperative she see you today. She thought that wearing a coal scuttle bonnet was appropriate for her task.’

‘The sword was obviously for me.’ Viv held it out. ‘See—on the blade she has had my name engraved. You must have misheard her.’

Ben turned the blade over and saw the engraved name. He had dismissed it earlier as fancy scrollwork. Eleanor Blackwell had planned to give this sword to Viv, but it didn’t make him believe the explanation she’d given—her colour had been too high and her manner too abrupt. Everything about her had been too much at odds with her desperation before they’d fought. Was she in some sort of trouble? Why did she need Viv’s help in particular? And, more importantly, what had changed her mind?

He handed the sword back to Viv.

‘Mrs Blackwell did intend to give it to you. But your birthday is not for another few months. She could have come back any day. But it had to be today that she saw you. Why?’

‘You have far too cautious a mind, cousin. I’m London-bound at Mrs Blackwell’s specific request. Going to meet my destiny.’ Viv rubbed a hand along his stubble and belched. ‘And while we are there you can introduce me to all the heiresses that your dear mama has lined up for you. She possesses a certain flair for discovering heiresses. Don’t deny it! My mother constantly writes of the despair you cause your mother.’

Ben knew precisely what Viv meant. Every season since Alice’s death his mother had made it her mission to sniff out a possible replacement. She liked to pretend that the way Alice had died had no bearing. A tragic accident, best forgotten.

No matter where he went in London she arranged for accidental meetings with women she deemed suitable. While all the while remaining deaf to his arguments that he wanted to choose his own bride in his own time, or indeed that he had a good enough heir in Viv. Every time he rejected one of her protégées she’d sigh and remind him how his father would want him to do his duty if he were alive, and how as his mother all she wanted was the best for him.

The truth was, none of the debutantes excited him. And what was the point in indulging in a meaningless affair with some piece of Haymarket ware? He knew what he’d shared with Alice. He also knew that it was in spite of his mother rather than because of his mother that he’d fallen for Alice. And he’d vowed that any bride of his would not have to suffer what he’d inadvertently caused Alice to suffer. Never again. He could not make it up to Alice, but he could prevent it from reoccurring.

There had been a spark, a flash of chemistry between him and Mrs Blackwell. And he could have murdered Viv for interrupting him. He’d wanted to see if it was real. If her lips did taste as sweet as he’d imagined.

‘Is there a Mr Blackwell?’

‘I’m speaking of the bright lights of London and pretty heiresses and you want to discuss Mrs Blackwell?’ Viv gave him a quick indulgent smile. ‘Well, I believe she is an ape-leading spinster. Her father’s name was Blackwell. He was alive when Papa bought me my first sword. Now, enough of the woman. I’m much more interested in strategy. Do I wear my plum waistcoat or my emerald-green with the sword?’

‘Strategy?’

‘When Mrs Blackwell placed this sword in my hands I knew I was accepting her trust and admiration. I plan to fulfil her request. This sword needs to be seen and it will be—with all the bravado I can muster.’

Ben tapped his finger against his lips. His sense of unease increased.

Why the pretence? What had been Mrs Blackwell’s true intention in coming here today?

He forced his mind away from the duel they had shared. If Viv had not interrupted she would have been in his arms, looking up at him with her marvellous eyes. That jolt of energy coursed through him again at the mere memory. He’d thought that part of him dead, but it was there and alive. And she was the cause.

‘You are sure you know of no other reason why Miss Blackwell would seek you out?’ he asked.

‘Relax, cousin, and accept good fortune when it comes your way.’ Viv made another flourish with his new sword. ‘It might seem a large thing, even insurmountable, to Mrs Blackwell, but it is something I am delighted to do.’

‘You’re mistaken. She needed your help with something else, but after she spoke with you she changed her mind.’

Viv rolled his eyes. ‘You can believe what you want. It is my sword now, and I shall enjoy it. You’re bad-tempered because she chose me over you. Because someone proved you were merely human at fencing. You had to lose some time. Be grateful it was in private. Face it. Mrs Blackwell did us both a favour.’

He stalked off with the sword tucked under his arm, leaving Ben standing there.

‘We are far from finished, Eleanor Blackwell,’ Ben muttered, reaching for his walking stick. ‘Whatever trouble you are in, giving Viv that sword has only increased it tenfold. You must trust me on this.’

‘I failed, Grandfather.’

Eleanor regarded her grandfather’s portrait, which hung next to her great-great-grandfather’s sword in the office at the foundry. Always when she re-entered the office she spoke to the painting. It made her feel as if she wasn’t the only one left who cared about the company.

Ever since she’d returned from Sir Vivian’s she’d been trying to work up the courage to come into this room. In many ways the office still felt as if it belonged to her grandfather and she was only borrowing it, even twenty years after his death. Her father had lacked the courage to change it, and Eleanor had never wanted to. She always found inspiration and peace in the old leather chair, the walnut desk and the various swords hanging on the walls. But today everything stood in mute rebuke. Even the Villumiay clock her grandfather had won just before he died seemed to pause and frown, as if it knew how far her failure extended. She’d lacked the courage even to ask.

Eleanor had always considered herself the saviour of the firm, the protector of its heritage. She was the one who had rescued it when it had been on the brink of collapse after her father died. She was the one who had made the business what it was today—thriving, and one of the biggest employers in Shotley Bridge. She had kept her stepfather out of the day-to-day running of the company and ensured it flourished. But today she’d learnt it was all an illusion. When it really counted she’d put her personal aversion to Sir Vivian before the needs of the company.

She hadn’t even asked the question! Hadn’t given him a chance to refuse!

‘I failed today, Grandfather, but tomorrow I will find another way.’ She blinked rapidly, keeping back the tears. Whatever happened, she refused to give in. She wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. She enjoyed challenges. She thrived on them. ‘I will succeed. This company is my heritage, not anyone else’s.’

‘Ah, there you are, Eleanor. I have been searching everywhere for you. It was most remiss of you to go off without informing me.’

Eleanor dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Just what she needed—the Reverend Algernon Forecastle, her stepfather’s nephew, making an appearance. He slithered into the room and deposited himself at her grandfather’s desk.

‘When I am in charge of this benighted company one of the first things I’m doing is sacking that man in the patched waistcoat and frayed trousers. He is not the sort of person we want representing Moles. He told me to mind my business and go and practise my sermons on the cows, sheep and other animals in the field, rather than bothering honest folk who were going about their daily business. The cheek of the man! I only preach on Sundays.’

Eleanor breathed deeply and reminded herself that getting angry with Algernon wouldn’t help anyone. He wasn’t responsible for her failure. She was. But he made it sound as if running a business was easy, when she had dedicated her life to making sure that it didn’t fail. Even now, despite all her success, she woke up in a sweat, having dreamt that somehow her actions had destroyed the company.

‘That man is Mr Swaddle, who is in charge of steel production,’ she said steadily. ‘He always wears his lucky clothes when he is trying out a new method of tempering steel. Something that requires immense concentration and is of untold value to the company. We are very close to discovering the lost formula that my great-grandfather used.’

‘That doesn’t matter. He is making the entire place look untidy.’ Algernon put his boots on top of the walnut desk. ‘You should get rid of him immediately. You make it sound as if running a company is difficult. It’s not. You don’t have to do much—just issue orders. Uncle was far too soft.’

‘Your uncle was quite happy for me to run the company as I saw fit.’

‘Uncle never properly applied his mind to the problem. If a woman can make this company prosper, just think of what a man could do on a few hours a week. It is not you, Eleanor, that made this company. You simply take the credit unnecessarily. You have ridden your luck. That’s all.’

‘Thankfully, for the future of Moles, I remain in charge.’ Eleanor crossed her arms. If she needed any further proof that Algernon was completely and utterly unsuitable for running the company, this was it. Who cared about a few patches on his clothes when Mr Swaddle was a genius with steel? At least her stepfather had understood why Moles made money and who made it happen. ‘And, given Mr Swaddle’s expertise, he can wear whatever he likes. Moles is the better for having him as a foreman.’

Algernon blew on his nails. ‘So you say.’

Eleanor rested her chin on her hand. There was something more than pleased about Algernon Forecastle today. He couldn’t know about her failure with Sir Vivian, so what was it? ‘What are you doing here, Algernon?’

‘I demand to see the latest ledgers. It is my right.’

‘Your right?’ Eleanor stared at him in astonishment. ‘You have no rights here. This company does not belong to you. You ought to go and compose a sermon. Won’t your parishioners want to hear one this Sunday?’

He gave her a pitying glance. ‘I bought a complete book of sermons, and I am only halfway through the third reading.’

‘How resourceful.’

‘Yes, it was.’ Algernon began to preen like the prematurely balding otter that he was. ‘I learnt about the book from a classmate at Oxford. It means I can spend my time doing other more important things.’

‘Visiting the poor and the sick?’

‘You must be joking, Eleanor.’ Algernon paled. ‘The great and the good. The poor can fend for themselves. And I’ve no wish to come down with some horrible disease.’

Eleanor forced a smile. She should have remembered that Algernon had a hide tougher than most forms of steel and seemed impervious to sarcasm. ‘That may be so, but you still don’t possess the right to bother my employees, to demand the ledgers or to put your muddy boots on my great-grandfather’s desk. Remove your boots from there immediately.’

He made a show of wiping the dirt off with his linen handkerchief. ‘Satisfied? I plan to replace this with something more modern when I take over.’

‘I doubt that will ever happen.’

‘Miss Varney says it is about time I stood up for myself and became actively involved.’

‘And who, pray tell, is Miss Varney?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Miss Lucinda Varney is my intended.’ His sneering gaze travelled up and down her. ‘You didn’t think I would marry you? Despite what my uncle counselled.’

‘I take it that my stepfather remained in blissful ignorance about your matrimonial plans?’

‘Uncle would not have understood. I need a truly refined wife—one who will be in keeping with my new station in life.’

His words about refinement stung far more than they should. Eleanor gritted her teeth. She knew why she’d turned her back on parties and balls. The reasons were all around her and in the very air she breathed. She was proud of her accomplishment, even if it was far from what was expected of a lady. And even if the company was not the bustling family that she’d dreamt of when she was a young girl.

‘I hope you and Miss Varney are very happy,’ Eleanor said when she trusted her voice. ‘But you must relinquish all notions of inheriting the business or any of its investments.’

‘My uncle put that codicil in to tease you. What sort of man would marry you?’ Algernon’s smile grew oilier. ‘My uncle even left me instructions on how to challenge your marriage if necessary. He did specify banns, Eleanor. Do you have the time?’

‘I never doubted that for an instant.’ Eleanor kept her back ramrod-straight. ‘But the fact remains that until you do inherit, the company belongs to me and I shall run it as I see fit.’

‘You have twenty-six days left. Banns take at least twenty-one days. Ordinary licences take the same.’

‘There are always special licences.’

‘Do you know how difficult it is to get a special licence? They are called special because you must give an excellent reason.’ Algernon stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat. ‘I wonder what reason you will give, Eleanor? To the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less. Did you know that I know his son? What connections do you have? Or indeed do you have a man who would wish to marry you?’

Eleanor fought against the rising tide of panic. She refused to give in. ‘I have twenty-six days, Algernon. At the end of that time, if you inherit, you may do what you like with the ledgers and my grandfather’s desk. You may even sack valuable members of staff and cut this company’s throat. But until that time keep your boots off the desk and your fingers off the ledgers. And your opinions of my employees to yourself!’

‘You will regret this.’

‘I think not.’

‘Mrs Blackwell.’ One of the junior clerks rushed in with a panicked expression on his face. ‘There is a gentleman here to see you. He wants to see you now.’

‘I don’t have any appointments—’ Eleanor began.

‘We have unfinished business, Mrs Blackwell,’ Lord Whittonstall said, coming to stand beside the clerk. ‘And it will be completed today.’