Читать книгу The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh - Stephanie Laurens - Страница 10

There was one thing Sylvia wasn’t prepared to do, and that was give up. The following morning, she strode briskly along King Street, her goal the Dock Company offices on Broad Quay.

The previous day, after the Dock Company directors had dropped their bombshell and shattered her peace of mind, she’d gathered herself and her thoughts and had sought an urgent meeting with the Dean, he under whose auspices her school for dockyard boys had been created. Although the Dean had been, as ever, sympathetic and supportive, he hadn’t had any suggestions to make as to who she might approach to secure new premises for the school.

That meeting had been followed hours later by another with the parish council, the previous evening being the night of the council’s regular weekly conference. The outcome had been less than satisfactory—indeed, close to horrifying—which had only hardened her resolve.

Depressingly, between informing the Dean and, later, the parish council of the unexpected change in the school’s circumstances, she’d felt compelled to visit the school and inform the staff and students that, due to unforeseen events, it was possible that the school might have to close for a week or so after the end of the week. Unsurprisingly, her announcement had caused dismay and consternation, but better they heard it from her than via the dockside rumor mill. She’d done her best to allay everyone’s concerns, reassuring them all that if it came to a closure, it would only last until new premises were secured, yet the expressions haunting so many of the students—the anxiety etched on their young faces—had clutched at her heart.

They weren’t her children, and she didn’t think of them as such, but she knew each and every one now, knew their stories, their families, and, in most cases, their hopes and dreams, and felt an almost-parental responsibility for each boy.

Most had had to fight and win battles of their own to be allowed to attend regularly rather than find whatever work they could; each of the seventeen regular pupils had had to gain the support of their family, and given the current lack of prosperity on the Bristol docks, that had been a feat in itself.

She was determined not to let them—and the teachers and assistant—down. She would find a place—would find someone willing to donate either a venue or the rent for one.

She had to—and quickly—or the parish council would redirect the school’s funds to some other worthy cause.

While none of the council members had had any advice to offer regarding where she might find new premises for the school, they had made it clear, albeit gently, that as the council could not afford to rent such premises itself, if appropriate donated space was not forthcoming, the council would have to withdraw all funding. As the chairman had explained, there simply wasn’t sufficient money in the parish coffers to support a nonfunctioning school; in the current climate, the parish had too many other calls on its funds.

She’d left that meeting with a hideous sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. But after a night of tossing and turning and, in between bouts of sleep, evaluating increasingly fanciful options, she’d woken with a start—and a rather bold, certainly desperate, but possible way forward clear in her mind.

Hence her impending visit to the Dock Company offices.

On reaching the end of King Street, she turned right into Broad Quay. The Dock Company offices faced the Frome and were quite grand, with a semicircular set of steps leading up to a pair of glossy, green-painted doors with glass panels bearing the company’s name and logo inset into each. Sylvia pushed on the brass handle and walked briskly into the tiled foyer. Having been to the building before, she didn’t pause but continued to the stairs at the end of the foyer and went up to the first floor.

There, she rapped peremptorily on the door facing the stairs. On hearing a somewhat testy “Come,” she opened the door and walked inside.

She fixed the black-suited figure behind the desk with an uncompromising gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Finch.”

Finch didn’t look pleased but, nevertheless, got to his feet, returning her greeting with a curt nod. “Miss Buckleberry. I do hope you aren’t here to tell me that there will be any difficulty over the school vacating the warehouse.”

Sylvia allowed her gaze to rest heavily on Finch until he grew restless and started fingering the buttons on his coat. Then she simply said, “No. I’m here to inquire as to the name of the new tenant and where I may find him.”

Slowly, Finch blinked. “Ah...why do you need such information?”

Sylvia smiled as innocently as she could. “I merely wish to ask if he—presumably having recently surveyed the available warehouses around the docks—has any information on empty premises the school might be able to lease.” That would be her opening question, but she doubted Finch would approve of what else she intended asking the new tenant, much less the manner in which she intended to ask.

“Ah. I see.” Finch appeared to be considering telling her, but then he refocused on her face, and his expression grew stern. “I’m afraid, Miss Buckleberry, that without the gentleman’s permission, I am unable to share such information—it might be seen as a breach of trust.”

Sylvia fought to keep exasperation from her face and, instead, heaved a put-upon sigh. “Mr. Finch, surely you can see that in order to ensure the school removes as required—”

His face turning to granite, Finch held up a hand. “Miss Buckleberry, I do hope you aren’t thinking to sway me by suggesting the school might not be out of the warehouse by Friday afternoon at the latest.”

Sylvia managed not to glare, but it was a near-run thing. Lips firming, she replied, “Of course not. I’m merely attempting to do the best for the school and locate new premises—”

“As I am endeavoring to do what’s best for the Dock Company.” Finch held her gaze. “I’m glad we understand each other, Miss Buckleberry.”

Sylvia stared at the annoying man and inwardly conceded; he’d dug in his heels and she would get nothing from him. That decided, she favored him with a brief nod, turned, and walked to the still-open door. With her hand on the knob, she glanced back and said, “Normally, I would thank you for your help, sir, but sadly, you’ve been no help at all.”

She walked out and shut the door with a definite click.

She swept down the stairs, through the front doors, down the steps, and halted on the quay. “Men!”

The muffled exclamation and her exasperated expression drew a few looks from passersby. She ignored them and focused on her goal.

How was she to learn the identity of the new tenant?

Finch had said gentleman, singular; that was the only piece of helpful information he’d dropped. She hadn’t yet decided how, precisely, she would approach the new tenant—whether she would opt for engagement and appeal to his better social nature or if she would play on his guilt over ousting the school. She would make that decision when she faced him, as she was determined to do. One way or another, she intended to beard the new tenant, explain matters in simple terms, and see if she could extract some degree of help from that quarter.

Having tapped all those with whom she was familiar, those who knew enough to appreciate her cause, and got nowhere, she was willing to approach the one player in the drama she didn’t know—the newcomer to the docks.

The irony in that hadn’t escaped her; in lieu of gaining help from any locals for a project to further local good, she was seeking assistance from a stranger.

How can I find him?

No inspiration struck. Frowning, she turned south, slowly walking back along Broad Quay. She’d taken only a few paces when, glancing ahead, she saw men gathered in groups in front of a labor exchange.

She halted. The exchanges were how men out of work learned of new jobs on the docks and elsewhere. Several such exchanges were scattered around the city, but the one before her, on the corner of Currant Lane and the narrower quay that ran along the eastern bank of the Frome, was the closest to the warehouse.

If the new tenant needed to hire workers, then the Currant Lane exchange was where he would post his notices.

Slowly, Sylvia smiled, then she stepped out more confidently, heading for the door of the labor exchange.

* * *

“How can I help you, miss?” The young clerk behind the counter looked at Sylvia uncertainly; she wasn’t the usual sort of client who appeared in front of him.

She smiled. “You’re Elroy’s brother, aren’t you?”

The clerk blinked, then his eyes widened. “Oh—you’re the school lady.” The clerk relaxed. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t recognize you at first. Have you come to list a job?”

“No, sadly, but I wondered if you might be able to help me.”

“If I can, I will.” The clerk puffed out his thin chest. “What is it you need help with?”

“I’m trying to learn the name of the businessman who’s taken the lease on the warehouse the school’s been using. It’s a new business coming to town, so I’m sure he’ll have listed at least a few positions with this office.”

“Oh.” Now the clerk looked wary. His eyes shifted to the older man serving others farther along the counter. Then the clerk leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t know as how I can, miss. That sort of information is only given to those who need to know—we don’t even tell the men we send who they’ll be speaking to, who listed the position. We only give out the details of the position and where to apply.”

Sylvia frowned. “Surely you give out the name of the business?”

“Oh. Yes—we do that. The gentleman I think you’re after posted several positions for Cavanaugh Yachts.”

For an instant, Sylvia thought bells were ringing, distorting her hearing. “Cavanaugh Yachts?”

The clerk looked at her anxiously. “Are you all right, miss?”

She waved aside his concern. There were three Cavanaugh brothers—four if you counted the marquess, but this man couldn’t be he. And it was unlikely to be Rand, either, and Godfrey was surely too young...

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Tell me,” she said, not truly seeing the clerk anymore but a tall man in a morning suit. “Was this gentleman on the tallish side, with wide shoulders and brown hair...” She cast about for words to describe the aura that hung about her nemesis. “And looked to be the sort of gentleman who would laugh in the devil’s face?”

Refocusing on the clerk, she saw he was frowning.

“Actually,” Elroy’s brother said, “now I think of it, there were two of them. Two gentlemen who came in at different times, but hiring for the same business. The first was tall and thin, lanky-like, and he had dark brown hair, but the other gent—the one who listed a position for a secretary this morning—he was like you said.” The clerk nodded earnestly. “Had just such an air about him, you know?”

Sylvia knew all about the airs affected by Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Her wits were reeling, but she seized the straw the clerk had just offered her. “If I wanted to apply for the position of secretary to Cavanaugh Yachts, where would I go?”

The answer was a recently completed building in King Street. Sylvia thanked the clerk, then left the exchange and, gaze leveled and purpose in her stride, walked briskly toward King Street, an explosive mix of determination and rising anger simmering in her veins.

* * *

Kit stood in his inner office and studied the plans spread on the desk before him. Wayland must have been up half the night drawing the detailed sketches, but he’d been bright-eyed and eager when he’d dropped off the plans ten minutes ago with strict instructions that he expected Kit to have checked and approved them by the time Wayland called back in the early afternoon.

“I want to order the timber today,” Wayland had said. “It’ll take at least a day, maybe more, to fill such an order, and I don’t want to find that we’re still waiting on Monday.”

Kit had agreed. While Wayland went off to check at the labor exchange to see who had replied to their various listings, Kit had settled to peruse the plans.

The silence about him impinged; it was not what he was used to. The building was newly completed and, thus far, only partially let; the offices to either side lay empty. In addition, the builders had used thicker glass in the windows, which muted the sounds of the traffic along King Street to a distant rumble.

He glanced up—through the doorway to the outer office; he’d left the door between open so he could see the corridor door. He needed to find a secretary; he’d put up a listing that morning, but doubted anything would come of it for at least a few days. The clerk at the labor exchange had said he would circulate the listing to the exchanges in those parts of the city more likely to harbor a suitable female.

Until he hired someone, he was on his own, yet to his mind, getting the Cavanaugh Yachts workshop functional as soon as possible had to remain his pre-eminent goal.

While approving Wayland’s design was easy enough, checking his figures required concentration; marshaling his, Kit started on the dimensions of the office closer to the warehouse door, matching them with Wayland’s suggested timber frame.

Someone hammered on the outer door.

Startled, Kit looked up—in time to see the door flung open and a neatly dressed lady storm in.

She halted, saw him, and skewered him with a scorching glare.

Tall, with a willowy figure and svelte curves, garbed in a violet-blue walking dress over a white silk blouse, her wheat-blond hair drawn back from an arresting face carved from alabaster—

Recognition slammed into him and scrambled his brain.

Sylvia Buckleberry?

At his stupefied reaction, her eyes narrowed even further. She whirled and shut the door, then, with a furious swishing of skirts, marched through the outer office.

She stepped into his inner sanctum and let fly. “I might have known!” Her tone dripped acid; her bosom swelled as she drew breath. “Of all the cities in England, you had to choose this one, and, of course, you think nothing of trampling over whomever and whatever stands in your way.” She locked her eyes on his as she halted on the other side of the desk, then dramatically flung her arms wide. “I can just imagine the reactions of the Dock Company directors. ‘Yes, my lord. No, my lord. Three bags full, my lord.’” Indigo sparks flared in the periwinkle-blue of her eyes. Her lush lips set in a thin line, she glared at him accusingly. “I’m quite sure that’s how it went.”

She railed on, but while Kit’s brain registered her words, he wasn’t really listening.

Instead, he could only stare, grappling to make sense of the transformation of Sylvia Buckleberry that had manifested before him.

The first and last time he’d seen her—just weeks ago at Rand’s wedding, where, courtesy of Sylvia being one of Felicia’s bridesmaids and Kit being one of Rand’s groomsmen, Kit had been Sylvia’s partner—she’d treated him to a very effective cold shoulder. More, she’d given every indication of being a rigidly buttoned-down, haughtily dismissive, and chillingly distant sort of lady.

The lady before him was anything but.

This Sylvia Buckleberry was all fire and passion and life.

Blatantly driven by determination and willpower, she was a force of nature done up in a very attractive package.

On an intellectual level, he was aware that he’d noticed her physical attributes before, but at the time, their impact had been negated by her attitude. Now, however, this Sylvia Buckleberry was fixing his attention in a much more avid way.

She had, quite literally, transfixed his senses and scattered his wits.

And his lack of response to her tirade was making her seethe.

The glare she leveled at him was all hellfire and brimstone. “I’m well aware that London rakes cannot be expected to care in the slightest over a dockyard school, but why couldn’t you remain in London? Why did you have to come here and spoil everything? Do you have any notion of how much damage you’re likely to do to the fabric of local society?”

Those words finally penetrated the haze fogging his brain. He blinked, then frowned. “What the devil are you accusing me of?”

The look she bent on him was all dismissive scorn. “As if you don’t know.”

His own temper rising, he narrowed his eyes back. “I have absolutely no idea—” He broke off as several facts coalesced in his brain, and he realized what the Dock Company men hadn’t told him. “Wait.” He held up a hand as he rapidly replayed various exchanges, and suspicion hardened to fact. He refocused on her. “The charity using the warehouse is a school?”

“Yes!” Fists clenched, Sylvia wanted to rage on, but the look on his face—the open chagrin—took the wind from her sails.

It was patently obvious that he hadn’t known his leasing of the warehouse meant the eviction of a school. He could be acting, but she didn’t think he was—that he would bother. She frowned. “The Dock Company didn’t tell you?”

“No. They didn’t.” The words were clipped and boded ill for whomever had omitted to mention the fact. “Indeed, they took great care to avoid doing so.”

She wanted to cling to her anger, to the strength of the fury that anger had converted to during the short walk to his office, but if he hadn’t known about the school...

Aside from all else, it seemed that, instead of being the indolent, care-for-naught hedonist she’d labeled him, he was actually trying to establish a business that would bring jobs to the struggling docklands.

While such an action was the last thing she would have expected of him, the evidence was too definite to doubt.

Her anger drained in a rush, taking her righteousness with it. Her shoulders fell; dejection loomed.

She was vaguely aware of his sharp gaze on her face, then he waved her to one of the chairs angled before the desk.

“Please—sit down. I need to know more about this school.”

Kit waited until she’d subsided onto the chair, then drew up the admiral’s chair he’d earlier pushed back and sat. Her expression had shuttered, her attention seemingly turned inward—to him, her retreat felt like the withdrawing of a source of warmth. But having once laid eyes on the real Sylvia Buckleberry, he wasn’t about to let her hide away behind a wall of chilly disdain. He caught her eyes. “Tell me all—all about this school.”

Frowning faintly, she hesitated, but then complied, describing the establishment of the school under the auspices of the Dean of Christ Church and the funding she’d secured from the parish council on condition that the premises for the school were found free of cost. “Two years ago, the only vacant building that was suitable was the old warehouse on the Grove—our requirements are rather specific in that the location of the school must be within walking distance of the boys’ homes. Given the boys are from dockworking and shipyard families, that means somewhere along the docks or close by, but other than on the docks themselves, the alternatives are the inner city, which is generally unsuitable, or more well-to-do areas, which are unaffordable.” She paused to draw breath, then went on, “With the help of their wives, I managed to convince the Dock Company board to allow the school to use the old warehouse. The secretary, Finch, was never in favor, but I managed to arrange sufficient votes to carry the day.

“So we set up with two teachers and an assistant and have gathered seventeen long-term pupils. We usually get a handful of new pupils each year, and once we’ve trained the boys, they should be able to get jobs in the various offices in the city.”

She met his gaze. “It’s taken time to overcome the suspicions of the dockyard families especially—they don’t like to think that their boys might need different training from their fathers. Or that, if schooled, the sons might well earn more than their fathers. These past few months have been more settled, and we all thought things were rolling along well...and now this.” She waved a hand in a helpless gesture and looked away. “We have no grounds on which to protest our eviction—and, indeed, all will welcome a new business that promises more jobs for ship workers.” She paused, her frowning gaze fixed past his shoulder, then said, “It’s not us leaving the warehouse that’s the crux of the problem—the finding and securing of new premises is.”

She straightened on the chair, her expressive face attesting to a gathering of inner strength. “I’ve already asked the Dean and the parish council, and the representatives of the Dock Company, too, but no one could suggest any other group or company who have a suitable space that they might possibly allow the school to use.”

When she fell silent, he hesitated, but he needed to know all of it. “And if you don’t find new premises immediately?”

She sighed. “If I haven’t found new premises by the end of the week, I’ll have to close the school—at least temporarily. But the parish council has informed me that they will not be able to continue funding if the school isn’t functioning.”

She was facing the eradication of all she’d accomplished over the past two years.

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “The worst part of that is how it will affect the boys. The seventeen who attend have grown so much in confidence, but this will set them back. If I’m forced to close the school, even if only for a week, I suspect we’ll lose at least some of them. Longer than a week, and we might lose them all and have to start all over again, winning them and their families over to the idea that an education is the best way to secure their future.”

Her belief in that concept, her commitment to that ideal, and her devotion to the dockyard brats for whom she’d fought to get schooling was evident in her tone, her expression, her anxiety, and her imminent despondency.

Kit knew about personal obsession; he could relate.

He stirred, rapidly reviewing an idea that had taken shape as she’d spoken; one of his business strengths lay in recognizing opportunity when it came his way and seizing it. Of course, his first impulse had been to offer to help her, purely for her sake, but he knew how prickly she could become, and he wanted to avoid giving her any excuse to revert to her previous behavior with him—to poker up and make everything harder. Painting his interest as entirely self-serving would play into her preconceived notions of his character, avoiding the simple truth that he enjoyed helping people and would have helped her regardless.

“As it happens,” he said, and somewhat surprised, she raised her head and looked at him, “I believe that I—or rather, Cavanaugh Yachts—might be able to assist.” He hesitated for only a second, then leaned his forearms on the desk and fixed his gaze on her eyes. “I’ll be absolutely frank. I’m new to the city, and with a business to get off the ground, I need to establish my bona fides, to establish Cavanaugh Yachts as a trustworthy employer and, moreover, one seeking to put down roots and involve itself in the community—to signal that we’re here for the long haul. It sounds as if the boys attending your school come from precisely the subset of families from which my business will be seeking to attract workers. To my way of thinking, if I fund the rent for not just another venue but a better venue for the school, that will go a substantial way toward establishing the Cavanaugh name among the dockworkers and shipyard families.”

She blinked at him. “You’re prepared to do that?”

“Yes.” To drive his excuse home, he added, “Your pupils will have fathers, older brothers, uncles, and cousins, some of whom will be the sort of men I and my partner need to hire. Funding your school is an excellent way to forge a link with such craftsmen.”

She looked much struck. “I hadn’t thought of that—of that angle.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Well, you’ve already found a sponsor, so you won’t need to make the argument to anyone else. My one stipulation—and I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the circumstances, it’s reasonable—is that I view and approve the new venue. Indeed, I’ll be happy to assist with negotiating the lease, and I’m prepared to stand as guarantor if required.”

Of course, such a stipulation would also ensure that he got to spend more time with this new, much improved, and utterly fascinating Miss Buckleberry.

Sylvia stared at him and tried not to gape. His gaze remained steady, and his lips were slightly curved. He looked quite pleased with himself, which gave her pause—but only for a second. He’d just offered her all—and more than—she’d hoped to gain from the owner of the business taking over the warehouse. And wonder of wonders, he seemed inclined to take an active interest, and regardless of her view of him and his lordly status, that would unquestionably help the school’s standing with the Dean and the parish council—let alone the mayor.

Yet as he sat behind his desk—at a distance of a yard or more—and patiently waited for her to accept his offer, her unwanted reactions to him, initially overridden by her fury, inexorably rose with every breath, until she could almost feel physical awareness crawling over her skin. Significantly taller than she, broad shouldered and vigorous, with ruffled hair of a rich mid-brown, warm, light brown eyes, an austere and uncompromisingly patrician cast to his features, and sensual lips, from the first instant she’d set eyes on him, he’d been the visual embodiment of her fantasy gentleman. Just the sight of him affected her as no other man ever had. That said, she’d dealt with her silly sensitivity throughout the full day of Felicia’s wedding, had successfully suppressed and concealed it. Surely she could do the same again?

Yet now, his impact on her senses and her involuntary response seemed heightened—more intense. Possibly because she was dealing with the real man—one significantly more real than the rake who haunted her dreams—and without the predictable framework of a wedding and reception to act as a formal structure, directing and defining their interactions.

Here, now, they were interacting freely, adult to adult, with no screens, no masks. No façades.

Letting the silence stretch, she eyed him assessingly. She would dearly love to retreat to the chilly reserve she’d previously maintained with him—infinitely safer, without a shadow of a doubt—but the intent look in his caramel eyes and that faint suggestion of a smile about his lips gave warning that she would be unwise to attempt it; barging into his office in full and furious flight had shattered the mask she’d worn before, and no amount of acting was going to patch it back together.

So. Her response to his proposition ultimately hinged on the question of how much she was willing to give—to risk—to ensure the continuation of the school.

No question, when all was said and done.

He’d shown not the slightest sign of being discomfited by her prolonged scrutiny. Still holding his gaze, she tipped her chin higher. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

A tacit acceptance, one, it appeared, he was perfectly willing to seize. He glanced at the plans scattered over the desk. “We want to begin fitting out the warehouse on Monday—so as we would prefer not to have to close the school, even for a few days, we should move quickly to secure new premises.” He tipped his head at the plans. “I have to finish checking these and authorize them by early afternoon. Also, I don’t know the city well.”

He met her gaze and faintly arched his brows. “Might I suggest you make inquiries as to available and suitable buildings to lease—preferably in a better part of town than the warehouse, yet still within easy reach for the boys? Then you and I can meet here—shall we say at three?—and together, we can go and view the possibilities and make our choice.”

She had a sneaking suspicion that, somewhere in all this, she was being...not manipulated but steered. Yet she had no reason to even quibble with anything he’d suggested. Mentally throwing her hands in the air—she was about to willingly make a deal with her personal devil—she inclined her head with what grace she could muster. “Thank you. I’ll assemble a list of suitable premises for lease and return here at three o’clock.”

Gripping her reticule, she rose, bringing him to his feet—which made her stupid senses leap. Hurriedly, she waved him back to his chair. “I know the way out. I’ll see you later.”

With that, she turned and—metaphorically, at least—fled.

Kit watched her go. Only after she’d closed the outer door did he allow a smile of equal parts satisfaction and anticipation to curve his lips.