The younger girl looked a bit chilly. The older of the two was in a white hot fury, though she’d cloaked her rage in dignity. Quinn looked her straight in the eye, and—unlike many a man twice her age—she stared right back at him.
“Very well,” Barnstable said, holding up a wooden gavel. “Hear ye, hear ye! This is an auction without reserve for the property before which we are gathered. The bidding will now open. Who shall start us off, gentlemen?”
He smiled at the crowd, they did not smile back. Quinn had spent the past week making sure every merchant in London—and their wives—knew exactly what Barnstable was about.
“Oh, come now, friends,” Barnstable said. “Let’s not be shy. Mr. Wentworth has joined us, true, but even he isn’t made entirely of gold. What am I bid for this fine property?”
Another silence, as a cold wind blew down the street.
“One pound,” Quinn said, which caused a ripple through the crowd. One pound was an insultingly, outrageously low opening bid, and Barnstable’s smiled slipped.
“I have one pound,” he said, “and that will do for a start. Who can top one pound? Surely with the holidays upon us, somebody has more than one pound to spend on this beautiful edifice? Gentleman, you cannot allow Mr. Wentworth to steal this building for a single pound. T’wouldn’t be sporting!”
“What the hell is going on?” Joshua muttered.
“Quiet,” Quinn replied, once again giving Miss Chloe Thatcher a direct stare.
She held up a gloved hand. “Two pounds.”
“Miss Thatcher bids two pounds,” Barnstable said, “and she well knows that’s a mere pittance compared to what this building is worth. Come, gentlemen. You know old Thatcher’s heirs stand to benefit from your generosity today. A bid of two pounds, when Quinn Wentworth is in our midst, is nothing short of bad form.”
The crowd shifted restlessly. A man standing near the shop window raised a hand as if to bid. The person beside him, a printer, batted the man’s hand down.
“Do I have another bid?” Barnstable called out. “Sir, are you entering the affray? Don’t be shy, now. Some lucky bidder will end this day in possession of an enviably well placed commercial establishment. Let’s make sure it’s not Mr. Wentworth. What do you bid, my good fellow?”
“His nose itched,” the printer yelled.
Another man farther up the walk way looked as he was thinking of bidding. The man beside him whispered in his ear.
“Will nobody give me a bid?” Barnstable bellowed. “I cannot consider this an auction if there’s no bidding, my friends.”
“You said it yourself,” the printer retorted. “An auction without reserve. Mr. Wentworth put in his bid, and Miss Thatcher topped him.”
“That’s an auction, Barnstable,” a burly young fellow called. “For once you don’t get to cheat anybody.”
Barnstable was losing control of the crowd, and Quinn wasn’t quite ready for that to happen. He lifted his walking stick as if to examine the handle.
“Ah, Mr. Wentworth!” Barnstable cried. “I see you’re ready to resume bidding. You’ve had your little moment, but now let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Well, yes. The young ladies—and Mr. Farris—must not be made to stand about in the frigid air any longer than necessary.
Quinn took off his hat and bowed very correctly to the Misses Thatcher. “Ladies, congratulations on placing the winning bid. I wish you Happy Christmas. Mr. Barnstable, conclude your auction.”
A beat of silence went by before Joshua spoke over the crowd. “You heard him, Barnstable. Conclude the auction.”
Barnstable held his little wooden hammer, while the merchants murmured and shuffled.
“Say it, man,” the printer called, “or we’ll make you wish you had.”
The silence stretched while the crowd shifted restlessly. Quinn merely waited, for this group knew what it was to work hard, knew the fury of having been cheated by a crooked banker. For once, that banker was not going to win.
“You heard Mr. Wentworth,” a prominent butcher called. “Conclude the auction, Barnstable.”
“Conclude the auction now,” another voice added, “or you’ll get worse than a lump of coal for your reward, Barnstable.”
Barnstable looked about, his gaze the fearful disbelief of cornered prey.
“Now, Barnstable,” Joshua said again. “Or there will be consequences.”
Three more heartbeats went by, during which Mr. Farris, in a shocking lapse of decorum that pleased Quinn no end, slipped his hand around Miss Thatcher’s.
“Going once,” Barnstable croaked. “Going twice. Sold to Miss Thatcher for two pounds.”
A loud cheer went up as Quinn returned to the coach and gave his driver leave to trot off. On the steps of the bookshop, Mr. Farris was looking ordinately pleased for a man who’d turned his back on a lucrative career in finance, but then, Miss Thatcher was in his arms, laughing, crying, and kissing Farris’s cheek.
While Barnstable looked to be entirely, absolutely ruined.
“Happy Christmas?” Joshua asked, as the horses trotted on.
“One might say so,” Quinn replied. “Alas for all my scheming, we won’t be opening up our branch at the corner of Willoughby and St. Jean’s.”
Joshua peered out the window. “But?”
“But the printer across the way is ready to retire. He tells me bookstores generate a tremendous amount of foot traffic, and that benefits the entire neighborhood. I’d be a fool to close down a thriving bookshop when I’m thinking of opening up a branch in the area. Particularly when I can keep that shop open and in the right hands without spending sixpence.”
Joshua’s smile was patient. “And banks generate a lot of foot traffic, making it more likely the bookshop will thrive.”
“Particularly if a highly trained man of business is assisting with the bookshop’s management.” A nice thought, though Quinn still had no idea why anybody would want to spend their entire day around a lot of dull old books.
No idea at all.
Joshua sat back, his expression amused. “You are a good man, Quinn Wentworth, though your secret is safe with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am competent at commerce and fair in my dealings. That is all I shall ever aspire to be.” He was also proud of Aidan Farris, who’d demonstrated a sound sense of honor when honor was needed. No need to go bleating to Joshua about that.
Joshua’s smile became a grin as the coach pulled up at the corner nearest the bank. “Perhaps your sisters might have some idea what sort of gift to send along when Mr. Farris and Miss Thatcher’s nuptials are announced.”
Quinn climbed down from the coach. “I have no skill choosing gifts. I’ll leave that task to those better suited to it.”
Joshua joined him on the walkway. “Oh, I agree. You are not skilled at choosing gifts, you have no patience with sentiment, and drama has no place in commerce. Right.”
“Stop trying to annoy me. We have a full day of bank business to tend to. Let’s be about it.” Quinn jaunted off in the direction of the bank, pausing only long enough to flip an entire crown in the crossing sweeper’s direction.
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Wentwort,” the boy called back, slipping the coin in to his pocket.
“Go on,” Joshua muttered. “Say the words, Quinn. You’ve earned them.”
Quinn turned and tipped his hat to the boy, also to every generous-hearted merchant in London, and to every person who’d ever patronized the Thatcher’s bookshop. “Happy Christmas, indeed!” he called, a bit too loudly.
Then he jaunted up the bank’s steps and settled in for a full day of work minding the bank’s business.
The End
To My Dear Readers,
Is not Yuletide perfectly suited to romance? I love how our hearts seem to grow to the size of “ten men plus two” around this time of year, and I hope this story has added a touch of warmth to your holiday anticipation.
Quinn Wentworth cannot
be left ciphering and banking to his heart’s content, though. That would be much too easy. His story, My One and Only Duke, comes out November 6. If you’re in the US, please vote and then dive into Quinn and Jane’s HEA, ’kay? Their tale kicks off my Rogues to Riches series, and I’ve included a short excerpt below. If you’d rather not wait for Nov. 6, A Truly Perfect Gentleman, my latest Regency romance, came out on September 25.
Grey Birch Dorning, Earl of Casriel, is a bit too mannerly, and a bit too fixated on marrying well to solve all of his family’s problems. Beatitude, Lady Canmore, has news for him. Excerpt below.
I will be writing and publishing up a storm in the months to come, both novels and novellas. If you’d like to get a short email notice of new releases, pre-orders, and deals, the best way to make that happen is simply to follow me on Bookbub. If you’d also like to get the kitten pictures and coming attractions reel, please do sign up for my newsletter. I’m having great fun lately on Instagram too (more kitten pictures!).
Happy holidays, and happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
My One and Only Duke by Grace Burrowes, on sale November 6, 2018
When Quinn Wentworth and Jane Winston spoke their wedding vows in Newgate prison, neither expected the result would be a lasting union. But here they are, a month later, no longer in Newgate, very much in love, and not at all sure what to do about it…
Having no alternative, Quinn went about removing his clothes, handing them to Jane who hung up his shirt and folded his cravat as if they’d spent the last twenty years chatting while the bath water cooled.
Quinn was down to his underlinen, hoping for a miracle, when Jane went to the door to get the dinner tray. He used her absence to shed the last of his clothing and slip into the steaming tub. She returned bearing the food, which she set on the counterpane.
“Shall I wash your hair, Quinn?”
“I’ll scrub off first. Tell me how you occupied yourself while I was gone.”
She held a sandwich out for him to take a bite. “This and that. The staff has a schedule, the carpets have all been taken up and beaten, Constance’s cats are separated by two floors until Persephone is no longer feeling amorous.”
Quinn was feeling amorous. He’d traveled to York and back, endured Mrs. Daugherty’s gushing, and Ned’s endless questions, and pondered possibilities and plots—who had put him Newgate and why?—but neither time nor distance had dampened his interest in his new wife one iota.
Jane’s fingers massaging his scalp and neck didn’t help his cause, and when she leaned down to scrub his chest, and her breasts pressed against Quinn’s shoulders, his interest became an ache.
The water cooled, Jane fed him sandwiches, and Quinn accepted that the time had come to make love with his wife. He rose from the tub, water sluicing away, as Jane held out a bath sheet. Her gaze wandered over him in frank, marital assessment, then caught, held, and ignited a smile he hadn’t seen from her before.
“Why Mr. Wentworth, you did miss me after all.” She passed him the bath sheet, and locked the parlor door and the bedroom door, while Quinn stood before the fire and dried off.
“I missed you too,” Jane said, taking the towel from him and tossing it over a chair. “Rather a lot.”
Quinn made one last attempt to dodge the intimacy Jane was owed, one last try for honesty. “Jane, we have matters to discuss. Matters that relate to my travels.” And to his past, for that past was putting a claim in his future, and Jane deserved to know the truth.
“We’ll talk later all you like, Quinn. For now, please take me to bed.”
She kissed him, and he was lost.
Order your copy of My One and Only Duke, and read on for an excerpt from A Truly Perfect Gentleman!
A Truly Perfect Gentleman by Grace Burrowes
Beatitude, Lady Canmore, has no intention of marrying again. Grey Birch Dorning, Earl of Casriel, must marry well and soon. Alas the course of true love sometimes does go stumbling down a woodland path to end up with unlikely declarations from unsuitable parties…
The sun shone through the trees at the same angle as it had a moment ago, the water on the lake rippled beneath the same breeze, and yet, Grey’s world had endured a seismic shock.
“You would like to have an affair with me,” he said slowly. Then, to make sure he hadn’t indulged in wishful hearing, “An intimate affair?”
Lady Canmore glowered up at him. “Is there another kind?”
“I would not know.”
She stalked along at his side. “You’ve never enjoyed the company of a woman outside the bounds of wedlock?”
“By London standards, I am retiring when it comes to those activities. I have reason to be.”
Lady Canmore took him by the hand and dragged him down a barely visible side trail. For a small woman, she was strong.
“The hermit’s folly is this way,” she said. “What do you mean, you have reason to be? To be a monk? I have been a monk for the past several years. Monkdom loses its charms. If you think that makes me fast or vulgar or unladylike, then I think such an opinion makes you a hypocrite. There’s not a man in Mayfair who doesn’t indulge his appetites to the limit of his means, and a few beyond their means. Roger told me swiving is all many men think about.”
“I most assuredly think about it.” That admission was not polite. Not gentlemanly. Not… what Grey had intended to say.
Her ladyship came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the trail. “You do? You think about it with me?”
Oh, how that smile became her, how that light of mischief transformed her gaze. “You have broached this topic, my lady, but are you certain you want to pursue it in present company?” A gentleman had to ask, for the discussion would soon pass the point where her overture could be dismissed as a jest or flirtation.
“You haunt me,” Lady Canmore replied, clearly not a disclosure that pleased her. “Men I’ve been dancing with for the past eight years now strike me as lacking stature, though I myself am short. When I arrive at a gathering, I look for you, even though all the way to the venue, I tell myself I must not do exactly that. You and I are engaged in a semblance of a friendship, I tell myself, only a friendship.”
Lady Canmore took a turn off the path that Grey would have missed. She knew where she was going, while he was increasingly lost.
“I don’t want to be your mistress,” she went on. “I want to be your lover.”
Grey almost sagged against the nearest oak. “Do you frequently make such announcements in the same tone of voice most people reserve for discussing the Corsican, long may he rot in memory?”
The way ahead opened into a clearing that held a small three-sided stone edifice on a slight rise. The surrounding woods had been carefully manicured to give the folly three views. One looked out over the lake, another toward Brantmore House. The third faced the woods sloping away to the east.
A circular portico framed the interior of the folly, where benches provided a private place to rest.
“I am not happy with myself for becoming interested in you,” Lady Canmore said. “But there it is. You are kind, gentlemanly, and a fine male specimen. Your flirtation is original without being prurient or presumptuous. You dance well. You humor Aunt Freddy. You love your siblings. You are not afraid of hard, physical work. In fact, I think you need it to thrive.”
She paced before the folly, listing attributes that made Grey’s heart ache. She saw him, saw him clearly, and appreciated who and what she saw.
“You are the comfort of your aunt’s declining years,” Grey said, “a ferociously loyal friend, a minister’s daughter who has learned how to manage polite society without being seen to do more than smile and chat. If I had to choose one word to describe you, that word would be courageous. I can’t help but watch you, even when you dance with others, because you have such inherent grace. I see you walking away, and I know I have nothing to offer you, but I want to call you back, every damned time.”
She came to a ha
lt before him. “My lord, what are we to do?”
“My name is Grey, and as for what to do… I would like to kiss you.”
Order your copy of A Truly Perfect Gentleman!
Home for the Holidays
The Brethren story
By
Christi Caldwell
Prologue
Kent, England
Winter, 1821
One might say Caroline Whitworth, the Duchess of Sutton, knew her husband, Samuel Whitworth, the Duke of Sutton, better than anyone.
Nor was it an exaggeration. Betrothed as a babe to the then future duke, there hadn’t been a time when she hadn’t been near Samuel.
As such, many times she teased that she knew his nuances and mannerisms and thoughts better than Samuel himself did.
It was why she knew precisely how he would respond to the news she brought.
It was also why she’d asked her son, Heath, the ducal heir and oftentimes a calming influence, to be present.
Folding the note she’d just read to him along its pointed crease, she neatly rested it on her husband’s immaculate desk. “Married.” She repeated the most important contents of the missive. “Our son is married.”
“Say it’s the Aberdeen girl,” he gritted out.
“Oh, come, Samuel. That does not make sense. Lady Emilia arrived earlier this afternoon with her parents and occupied the second chair from yours not even five hours ago. It could hardly be Emilia.”
Her husband whipped up the page and slashed it around the air. “Are you making light of… of… this?”
Heath shifted in his chair, and the leather groaned under the uneasy movement. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, contemplating escape.
Another time, Caroline might have felt some compunction at placing her son in the unenviable role of witness, and participant, in a debate between her and her husband. Not this time.
She was all out of patience with the three equally obstinate males in her family. “Hardly, Samuel. I’d never dare jest about Emilia’s unwed state or our son’s recently wedded one.”
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 10