“Please don’t apologize.” He came lightly towards her, a narrow hand outstretched. “I can never resist other people’s bookcases, either.” He glanced at the title before laying the book upon the table. “I approve your choice, at any rate.” He stood waiting politely, “Miss—?”
She found her voice. “Benton. Mrs Benton.”
“You believed you had an appointment with me, Mrs Benton?”
“Yes. That is – you got in touch with the Venture Employment Agency—”
“Ah, of course. John Marsden’s new undertaking. An extraordinarily good idea, I thought. I admire Mr Marsden’s enterprise. You have—” he paused, his expression slightly puzzled, “—a message for me from Mr Marsden?”
Her tiny spurt of irritation served to steady her nerves. “No, Mr Jefferson. I’ve come to see you about the work that you offered us. The Venture Agency is not Mr Marsden’s enterprise, it is mine. Mr Marsden is my partner, but since he is retiring within the next couple of weeks it seemed more sensible for me to assume responsibility for your business from the start. I hope you don’t find that – inconvenient?” She allowed herself the slightest of pauses before the word, and saw his long mouth twitch in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry, my assistant obviously omitted to inform you whom to expect when she replied to your letter.” Her confidence was returning; her voice was cool and businesslike.
Adam Jefferson was watching her speculatively, a new interest in his dark eyes. He inclined his head gravely. “Please accept my apologies, Mrs Benton. The mistake is mine. I should have checked your letter of reply myself. However, now we have that settled, before we begin—” again that flashing, charming smile, “—let me take your coat. You must be extremely warm.”
An understatement. She was decidedly hot. But underneath the smart, silk-lined wool was crumpled, sugar-water-starched cotton and a skirt with a tendency to remain seated when its wearer stood up. “No, thank you.”
“As you wish. Now, if you’d like to sit down and make yourself comfortable—?” He waved a hand towards the armchairs by the fire.
“Thank you.” She looked around and discovered a prim, straight-backed chair near the desk at the cooler end of the room. Collectedly she walked to it, picking up her case on the way. As she sat down, bolt upright – there was absolutely no other way to sit in the ridiculous corset – the case flew open and paper cascaded across the polished floor.
She took a long, slow breath, and with a control that she had not herself known that she possessed refrained from an exclamation both forceful and unladylike.
Adam Jefferson was making a well-mannered but unsuccessful attempt to keep the amusement from his face. “Please – allow me—”
She had in fact no choice. The iron constriction of the corset ensured that. She could no more have bent down to retrieve the papers than she could have spread wings and flown. And she had the awful conviction that he knew it. Cursing herself, she sat rigidly as he went easily down on one knee and picked up the scattered documents. Her efficient plan of campaign came back to her in unrelated disorder, some of the pages upside down or back to front. Her colour high, she tried to sort them as he handed them to her. In doing so half a dozen more slipped from her lap. He sat back on his heel, laughing openly at last.
“I have a suggestion to make.”
She looked at him.
“Why don’t I go out and come back in again? It might be a little less flustering for both of us?” It was said easily, a graceful gesture to ease her embarrassment.
She did not smile. “There really isn’t any need for that, Mr Jefferson,” she said grimly, without thought. “I think perhaps the best thing would be to get on with our business?”
He watched her for a moment longer before, with a single, swift movement he stood up. “Of course.” She heard the slight chill edge in the odd, attractive voice and knew she had made a mistake. Mentally she shrugged. It seemed to her that she’d made so many that morning that one more could hardly make any difference.
He seated himself behind the desk, laced exceptionally well-cared-for hands together on the shining leather top. “Well, now, Mrs Benton,” he said, his quiet voice still degrees cooler than it had been, “convince me that the Venture Employment Agency can handle our business.”
She fiddled with the papers for a moment under his uncharitable gaze before, impatiently, she put them on the desk without looking at them. “I’ve been over the information you gave us very carefully. And I think that, in at least one case, you have your figures wrong.” She ignored the quizzical quirk of his eyebrows and ploughed on. “I don’t believe that you need separate employees for the import and export work. You could form a pool to serve both departments, and then use agency staff – temporary staff – for any extra work. You don’t need to employ people permanently for jobs that involve seasonal or other fluctuations. It will keep money in your pocket—”
“—and put money in yours,” he finished gently.
“Of course. We aren’t a charity, Mr Jefferson. But it will still be a lot more economical from your point of view. Our staff are fully qualified – you’ll have no complaints, I promise you.” She riffled through the papers, pulled out a slightly crumpled sheet. “I have figures here, projected for six months – as accurately as I could with the information you gave us – that I think will prove that my idea will save you a considerable amount of money—” She held out the paper and he took it, scanned it quickly.
“Well, well,” he said softly, “so you have. Tell me more, Mrs Benton.”
An hour later she collected her papers together, packed them into her case, snapping the damaged lock firmly, and looked up to find him leaning, elbows on desk, fingers steepled before him, his eyes on her face.
“Mrs Benton,” he said into the sudden silence, “I believe that, as they say in the States, we have a deal. And,” he added, “that’s the first time you’ve smiled since I walked through the door. I was just beginning to wonder if you could.” He leaned back relaxedly.
There was grace in every movement he made. Though not in the absolutely strict sense of the word handsome, he was a disturbingly attractive man and the disarming warmth in his eyes was flattering. Molly remembered what John Marsden had said about this man’s reputation with women and did not for a moment doubt it. Despite herself euphoria overcame caution and she laughed. “Smiles come extra in business hours.”
“You’ll make a fortune in no time.”
“Not unless I can persuade you to change your mind about who pays for the advertising, I won’t.”
Laughing he held his hands in front of him in a gesture of defence. “Pax! Business is finished—”
“Half and half,” she said composedly, “then it’s finished.”
He hesitated for only a second. “All right. Done. I might have guessed you wouldn’t let me get away with it. You drive a hard bargain, Mrs Benton. Now, I insist – a small toast to our future collaboration.”
She stood up as he came around the desk towards her. Although he was several inches taller than she he did not tower above her as most men did. His shoulders were narrow, his body neat and spare beneath well-cut, expensive-looking clothes. The high collar of his shirt was perfectly set and edged knife-sharp, his dark cravat was of chocolate silk and sheened in the light as he moved. “Are you sure that you won’t let me take your coat?”
Wild horses could not have torn it from her. “No, thank you.” She followed him to the table where stood the decanter and glasses.
“Madeira,” he said as he poured, “the very best. I trust it’s to your taste?”
She had never tasted Madeira in her life – was not indeed certain what kind of drink it might be. “Perfectly,” she said.
He handed her the glass, toasted her with his own. “To the new venture.”
“To the new Venture.” She gave the words a slightly different emphasis and, laughing, they drank. The rich wine glowed in her blood like fire. She could, she decided, grow
very accustomed to Madeira – it was indeed very much to her taste. The thought made her smile again.
“I beg your pardon?” Adam Jefferson had spoken and she had missed his words.
“I asked if you would care to lunch with me?” he asked easily. “Our negotiations seem to have given me an appetite.” There was quiet humour in the words.
Molly stared at him, her brash confidence draining from her. Adam Jefferson, she was absolutely certain, would not lunch where one could reasonably keep one’s coat on. And anyway, the treacherous stirrings of excitement that she was experiencing at the very thought could not be put down entirely to the effects of the Madeira. Quite suddenly she felt a small, strange shock of alarm. “Thank you, but no.” To her own surprise her voice was brisk and showed no sign of regret or wavering. “I have two other appointments today.” One with a typewriting machine and another with a pile of ironing, she added to herself, wryly. “I rarely have time for lunch.”
“Another time perhaps. Tell me, Mrs Benton,” – amusement lurked in his eyes and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he had divined the real reason for her refusal and was entertained by it – “are you always so dauntingly busy?”
“I have a business to run, Mr Jefferson.”
“Indeed you have. And on the evidence I’ve seen today I’d say that you run it very well.” The words were absolutely sincere, and Molly flushed. “But remember what they say about all work and no play…” He took the glass from her hand and, without asking, refilled it. He handed it to her with a smile. “You may have guessed that I admire attractive ladies, Mrs Benton. But in particular I admire attractive, clever ladies—”
“Which,” she found herself saying a little recklessly, “is more than can be said for many of your sex, Mr Jefferson.”
“Regrettable, but undoubtedly true. But then you have to understand that some gentlemen feel threatened by a clever lady and their only defence is to tell themselves that they dislike her and her kind.”
“And you don’t? Feel threatened?” The words were light but contained enough true curiosity to make him smile again.
“I feel threatened by no one,” he said simply, and beneath the charming surface Molly glimpsed something diamond-hard and cold as ice.
“I wish I could say the same—” It was out before she could stop herself.
He studied for a moment the golden liquid in his glass, then lifted thoughtful eyes to hers. “But then I think we both know that it isn’t feeling threatened that matters. It’s what one does about it.” He raised his glass very slightly. “I salute you, Mrs Benton.”
Her heart was pounding absurdly. She had the distinct feeling that the occasion was slipping beyond her control. “I really think I should go.” She drank the Madeira far too quickly. It sang in her head and thickened her tongue.
“But of course.” He was immediately, attentively polite and the odd, intimate moment was lost. “I’ll see you downstairs and get you a cab.”
At the door of the building he shook her hand, held it for a moment in his own. “I do apologize again for the slight misunderstanding, Mrs Benton. Next time, I promise, I’ll know whom to expect.”
The Madeira, the cold air, and the touch of his hand combined to vanquish caution. She grinned a sudden, impish grin absolutely at odds with the businesslike grey wool. “I – and my profit margin – forgive you, Mr Jefferson. If you’re really unhappy not to be working with John Marsden, I’ll try scowling and smoking a pipe next time?”
His laughter was a shout of enjoyment. “Something tells me, Mrs Benton, that we’re going to work very well together. Very well indeed.”
Later, in the hansom, she remembered that future tense and felt a small twinge of pleasurable anticipation.
And it was not, she realized, with some misgivings, entirely due to the promised profit margins.
Chapter Twenty-Six
John Marsden moved out of The Larches in mid-December. Two days later, in damp and drizzling weather, the Bentons moved in. An hour after the cart carrying their furniture had pulled up outside the door Molly stood in near despair in the middle of a chaos that seemed to have no great intention of allowing itself to be sorted out, wishing that not quite so many people had felt it their duty to help. Even Edward had gleefully taken an illicit day off from school and was alternately tripping over things – at twelve he had lost the neat prettiness of his early years and was becoming a gangling, clumsy adolescent – or chasing Danny and the twins around the new house until they were all worked up to such a pitch of excitement that one of the younger ones, usually Kitty, ended up in tears.
“Edward!” Arms piled high with linen, her smudged and dusty face a picture of exasperation, Molly stuck out a foot and barred the way into the empty parlour. “For heaven’s sake, stop dashing round like a maniac and make yourself useful. Those books over there—” she nodded her head at a pile of books that had tipped and spread themselves across the floor of the hall— “they’re Nancy’s. Take them up to her rooms for me, please. Before someone breaks their neck. And, please do try not to drop them on Meg’s head on the way… Oh Jack, no! Can’t you get some of this stuff into the rooms before you unload more? We’re getting in a terrible muddle.”
Jack swung the heavy box to the floor as if it had been full of feathers and several small brass ornaments fell from it with a crash and scattered across the floor. He did not bother to pick them up. “We’re paying the carter by the half-hour, lass. Sooner we get unloaded, sooner it stops costing us.” He cocked his head, listening. “God Almighty, what are those kids doing?”
“God Almighty’s the only one who knows.” Molly, muttering, dropped to her knees to retrieve the fallen ornaments. At the street door she heard Jack greet someone. She sat back on her heels. Surely, oh surely not someone else who felt duty-bound to “help”? She scrambled to her feet to find herself face to face with a completely strange young man who was obviously as taken aback at their sudden confrontation as she was. He was rather tall, painfully thin with a pale, sensitive face that was badly marred by the spots and eruptions of late adolescence. Molly judged him to be about seventeen years old.
“I’m – I’m most dreadfully sorry,” he said, his precisely accented voice cracking miserably in mid-sentence. “I didn’t realize—” He gestured at the mess, jumped as Jack banged through the door carrying single-handed a load that might have made a mule kick.
‘It’s our Nancy he’s looking for.” Jack made to dump the box on the floor.
“Jack! That’s the best china! Careful—” Molly flew to him, helped him lower the box, then turned to find the young man standing awkwardly where she had left him. “Nancy?” she asked.
“Miss Benton, yes.” He blushed. “I have a message for her. From my mother.” And then she recognized him. The Honourable Mrs Edmonton’s son.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. You came once before, didn’t you? Things are a bit muddled, I’m afraid. Nancy’s upstairs. It’s probably best if I show you the way. Can you squeeze through?”
They left the noise and the chaos behind them as they mounted the stairs. From the foot of the narrow flight that led to Nancy’s two attic rooms they could clearly hear her voice and Edward’s.
“—and you think this Mr Jones’ll give you a job when you leave school next year?”
“He’s already said he will. I’m better with engines than he is already. Just imagine. Working all day in a garage. And getting paid for it!” Edward’s voice sounded as if he had seen his personal vision of heaven.
Molly ran up the last few steps and tapped on the open door. Nancy was sitting on the floor amidst a spreading muddle of books. Edward was perched on an armchair, his feet pulled up out of Nancy’s way. As they both turned expectant faces to the door Molly’s heart tightened a little to see how alike they were. Apart from Edward’s still-golden hair he was the image of the girl who had borne him.
“You’ve got a visitor.”
Nancy looked beyond h
er, saw the young man and smiled. “Oh, hello, Christopher. Come on in.”
Christopher Edmonton followed Molly into the room. He seemed to be having some difficulty in managing his lanky frame; his feet and hands were awkwardly big, his straight brown hair flopped forward over his forehead and into his eyes almost every time he moved and he had a little, nervous habit of jerking his head sideways in a vain attempt to flick the straying strands back.
“I’ve a message from Mother.” He handed her a note. Nancy tore it open, glanced at it swiftly, then tucked it into her pocket “Thanks. Tell her I’ll let her know tomorrow, would you? Oh—” She seemed suddenly aware of her duty as a hostess. “Sorry, you haven’t been introduced, have you?” She nodded in Molly’s direction. “My sister-in-law – and landlady – Mrs Benton. And this is my young brother Edward. Christopher Edmonton.”
They murmured how-do-you-dos. There was an awkward silence. The boy, despite his obvious nervousness, showed no inclination to leave. Molly shifted from one foot to the other.
“Well—” she began.
Christopher Edmonton hardly seemed aware of her. He had eyes only for Nancy. “Please, Miss – Miss Benton,” he blurted, “may I stay and help? It wouldn’t be any trouble, honestly.” Nancy’s rooms, while not as disordered as the rest of the house, since some of the housekeeper’s furniture had been purchased and left in place, were nevertheless in some turmoil.
“Well – I—”
“Please. I’d very much like to.”
Molly stared. Could it be that Nancy did not hear the desperate eagerness in the young voice, see the wistful ardour in the eyes? “I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said.
Nancy was back among her books. “Thanks, Moll.”
Christopher perched on the arm of Edward’s chair, leaning forward, his straight hair tumbling across his forehead. He looked a child himself. His eyes did not for a moment leave Nancy’s face.
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