by Lisa Kleypas
After sitting at a corner table and ordering plates of fried fish and mugs of ale, Rhys considered how to broach the subject of Devon Ravenel’s land.
“Hematite ore,” Severin said, before Rhys had uttered a syllable. He smiled easily at Rhys’s questioning glance. “I assume you were going to ask, since everyone else in London is trying to find out.”
The phrase “too smart for his own good” was far too often applied to people who weren’t in the least deserving of it. In Rhys’s opinion, Tom Severin was the only person he’d ever met who actually was too smart for his own good. Severin often appeared relaxed and inattentive during a conversation or meeting, but later could recall every detail with almost perfect accuracy. He was bright, articulate, confident in his razor-edged intellect, and frequently self-mocking.
Rhys, who had been raised by stern and joyless parents, had always liked people with Severin’s quality of irreverence. They were of the same generation, with the same humble beginnings, the same appetite for success. The main difference between them was that Severin was highly educated. However, Rhys had never envied him for that. In business, instinct was equally as valuable as intelligence, sometimes even more so. Whereas Severin could sometimes talk himself into the wrong side of an issue, Rhys trusted the promptings of his own nature.
“Trenear found hematite ore on his land?” Rhys asked. “What’s the significance? It’s a common mineral, isn’t it?”
Severin loved nothing better than explaining things. “This grade of hematite ore is of unusually high quality—rich in iron, low in silica. It doesn’t even need to be smelted. There’s no deposit like it south of Cumbria.” An ironic grin twisted his lips. “Even more conveniently for Trenear, I’ve already planned to run rail tracks through the area. All he has to do is quarry the stuff, load it onto a hopper, and transport it to a rolling mill. With the demand for steel so high, he has a fortune on his hands. Or more accurately, beneath his feet. According to the surveyors I sent, rock-boring machines were pulling up samples of high-grade ore across at least twenty acres. Trenear could garner a half-million pounds or more.”
Rhys was glad for Devon, who deserved a stroke of good luck. During the past few months, the former carefree rake had learned to shoulder a burden of responsibilities that he’d never wanted nor expected.
“Naturally,” Severin continued, “I did my damnedest to get the mineral rights before Trenear realized what he had. But he’s a stubborn bastard. I finally had to concede near the end of the lease negotiations.”
Rhys glanced at him alertly. “You knew about the hematite deposit and didn’t tell him?”
“I needed it. There’s a shortage.”
“Trenear needed it more. He’s inherited an estate near bankruptcy. You should have told him!”
Severin shrugged. “If he wasn’t smart enough to discover it before I did, he didn’t deserve to have it.”
“Iesu Mawr.” Rhys lifted his ale mug and downed half of its contents in a few swallows. “A fine pair of fellows, we are. You tried to swindle him, and I propositioned the woman he loves.” He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Devon was no saint, but he had always been a solid friend, and he merited better treatment than this.
Severin seemed fascinated and entertained by the information. He was dark haired and fair skinned, with lean, sharp-cut features, and the kind of gaze that tended to make people feel targeted. His eyes were unusual, blue with uneven swaths of green around the pupils. The green was so much more pronounced on the right side that in certain light it appeared as if he had two entirely different-colored eyes.
“What woman?” Severin asked. “And why did you make a play for her?”
“It doesn’t matter who she is,” Rhys muttered. “I did it because I was in the devil’s own mood.” Kathleen, Lady Trenear, had told him—without malice—that he would never be able to make Helen happy, that he wasn’t worthy of her. It had touched that raw nerve in himself that he had never fully understood, and his reaction had been mean. Ugly.
Thereby proving her right.
Bloody hell, he wouldn’t blame Devon for thrashing him to a fare-thee-well.
“Was this around the time Trenear’s little cousin ended her betrothal with you?” Severin asked.
“We’re still betrothed,” Rhys replied curtly.
“Is that so?” Severin looked even more interested. “What happened?”
“Damned if I’ll tell you—the devil knows when you might use it against me.”
Severin laughed. “As if you hadn’t fleeced more than a few unlucky souls in your business dealings.”
“Not friends.”
“Ah. So you would sacrifice your own interests for those of a friend—is that what you’re saying?”
Rhys took another deep drink of ale, trying to drown a sudden grin. “I haven’t yet,” he admitted. “But it’s possible.”
Severin snorted. “I’m sure it is,” he said, in a tone that conveyed exactly the opposite, and gestured for a barmaid to bring more ale.
The conversation soon turned to business matters, especially the recent flurry of speculative building to address the housing needs of the middle class and working poor. It seemed that Severin was interested in helping an acquaintance who had fallen into debt after investing too heavily with a low rate of return. Some of his property had been given to a firm of auctioneers, and Severin had offered to take over the rest of his mortgaged properties, to keep him from becoming sold up altogether.
“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Rhys asked.
“Naturally,” came Severin’s arid response. “That, and the fact that he and three other large property owners in the Hammersmith district are part of a provisional committee for a proposed suburban railway scheme I want to take over. If I pull my friend out of the mess he’s made for himself, he’ll convince the others to support my plans.” His tone turned offhand as he added, “You might be interested in one of the properties he’s selling. It’s a block of tenements that are being torn down as we speak, to be replaced with model dwellings for three hundred middle-class families.”
Rhys gave him a sardonic glance. “How would I make a profit from that?”
“Rack-renting.”
He shook his head with scorn. “As a boy living on High Street, I saw too many workingmen and their families crushed when their rents doubled with no warning.”
“All the more reason to buy the property,” Severin said without pause. “You can save three hundred families from rack-renting, whereas some other greedy bastard—me, for example—wouldn’t.”
It occurred to Rhys that if the residential buildings were of good quality, well plumbed and ventilated, the project actually might be worth buying. He employed approximately a thousand people. Although they were well paid, most had difficulty finding good quality housing in town. He could think of several advantages to acquiring the property as a residence for his employees.
Settling back in his chair, Rhys asked with deceptive indolence, “Who’s the builder?”
“Holland and Hannen. A reputable firm. We could walk to the construction site after lunch, if you’d care to see it for yourself.”
Rhys shrugged casually. “It won’t hurt to take a look.”
After the meal concluded, they walked north toward King’s Cross, their breaths ghosting in the raw air. Handsome building facades, with their ornamental brickwork and terracotta panels, gave way to soot-colored tenements separated by narrow alleys and gutters filled with muck. Windows were covered with paper instead of glass, and cluttered with laundry hung out on broken oars and poles. Some of the lodgings were doorless, imparting a sense that the buildings were gaping at their own decaying condition.
“Let’s cross to the main thoroughfare,” Severin suggested, wrinkling his nose at the sulfurous taint of the air. “It’s not worth a shortcut to breathe in this stench.”
“The poor sods who live here have to breathe it all the time,” Rhys said. “You and I can endure te
n minutes of it.”
Severin slanted a mocking glance at him. “You’re not becoming a reformer, are you?”
Rhys shrugged. “A walk through these streets is enough to make me sympathize with reformist views. A sin, it is, for a decent workingman to be forced to live in squalor.”
They continued along the constricted street past blackened facades that had turned soft with rot. There was a dismal-looking cook-shop, a gin shop, and a small hut with a painted sign advertising a supply of gamecocks for sale.
It was a relief when they turned a corner onto a wide, well-drained roadway and approached the construction site, where a row of buildings was in the process of being torn down. The scene was one of controlled turmoil as a wrecking crew systematically dismembered the three-story structures. It was dangerous and difficult work: More skill was required to take down a large structure than to build it. A pair of mobile steam cranes mounted on wheels polluted the air with thunderous rattling, whistling, and clacking. Heavy steam boilers counterbalanced the jibs, making the machines remarkably stable.
Rhys and Severin walked behind a row of wagons being loaded with waste lumber to be hauled off and split for kindling wood. The grounds swarmed with men carrying pick-axes and shovels, or pushing wheelbarrows, while masons sorted through bricks to save the ones that could be reused.
A frown crossed Rhys’s face as he saw tenants being evicted from the building that was next in line to be demolished. Some of them were defiant, others wailing, as they carried their belongings outside and set them in heaps on the pavement. It was a pity for the poor devils to be turned out into the street in the dead of winter.
Following his gaze to the distraught residents, Severin looked momentarily grim. “They were all given a period of notice to vacate,” he said. “The building would have been condemned in any case. But some people stayed on. It always happens.”
“Where would they go?” Rhys asked rhetorically.
“God only knows. But it’s no good, allowing people to live among open cesspools.”
Rhys’s gaze rested briefly on a young boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age, sitting alone amid a small heap of belongings, including a chair, a frying pan, and a heap of soiled bedding. The lad appeared to be guarding the pile of possessions while waiting for someone to return. Most likely his mother or father was out looking for accommodations.
“I’ve had a glimpse of the plans,” Severin said. “The new buildings will be five stories tall, with running water and a water-closet on each floor. As I understand it, the basements will house communal kitchens, washhouses, and drying rooms. At the front, they’ll install iron railings to form a protected play area for children. Are you interested in seeing copies of the architectural schemes?”
“Aye. Along with deeds, bills of sale, building agreements, mortgages, and a list of all contractors and subcontractors.”
“I knew you would,” Severin said with satisfaction.
“With the condition,” Rhys continued, “that some of your Hammersmith railway shares are on the table as well.”
Severin’s smug expression faded. “Look here, you sticky-fingered bastard, I’m not going to sweeten the deal with bloody railway shares. That’s not even my building. I’m just showing it to you!”
Rhys grinned. “But you do want someone to buy it. And you won’t find many prospective buyers with all the cheap undeveloped land available in the boroughs.”
“If you think—”
The rest of Severin’s words were drowned out by an ominous cracking sound, a deafening rumble, and shouts of alarm. Both men turned to look as the upper portion of one of the condemned buildings began to collapse. Rotting beams and timbers had given way to gravity, slate tiles sliding downward and tumbling over the eaves.
The abandoned boy, perched on his pile of belongings, was directly below the deadly cascade.
Without thinking, Rhys raced toward the child, forgetting the stiffness of his leg in his haste to reach him. He threw himself over the boy, making a shelter of his body, just before he felt a tremendous blow on his shoulder and back. His entire skeleton quivered. Through the burst of white sparks in his head, some distant part of his brain calculated that he’d been struck heavily—there would be considerable damage—and then everything went dark.
Chapter 8
“WINTERBORNE. WINTERBORNE. COME NOW, open your—yes, there’s a good fellow. Look at me.”
Rhys blinked, awakening slowly to the bewildered awareness that he was on the ground, in the perishing cold. There was a crowd around him, exclaiming, questioning, shouting advice, and Severin was leaning over him.
Pain. He was submerged in it. Not the worst pain he’d ever experienced, but considerable nonetheless. It was difficult to move. He could tell that something was drastically wrong with his left arm, which had gone numb and motionless.
“The boy—” he said, recalling the roof collapse, the tumble of wood and slate.
“Unharmed. He was trying to pick your pocket before I shooed him away.” Giving him a mocking glance, Severin continued, “if you’re going to risk your life for someone, do it for a useful member of society, not a street urchin.” He extended a hand, intending to help Rhys up.
“My arm won’t move.”
“Which one? The left? You’ve probably broken it. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but when a building is falling down, you run away from it, not toward it.”
A commanding female voice pierced the cacophony of voices and steam engines. “Let me through! Move to the side, please. Out of my way.”
A woman dressed in black with a jaunty green necktie at her throat, pushed her way through the crowd with brisk determination, deftly employing a curved-handle walking stick to prod slow-moving bystanders. She looked at Rhys with an assessing gaze and knelt beside him, heedless of the muddy ground.
“Miss,” Severin began with a touch of annoyance, “no doubt you’re trying to be of use, but—”
“I’m a physician,” she said curtly.
“You mean a nurse?” Severin asked.
Ignoring him, she asked Rhys, “Where is the worst pain?”
“Shoulder.”
“Move your fingers, please.” She watched as he complied. “Does the arm feel numb? Tingly?”
“Numb.” Clenching his teeth, Rhys looked up at her. A young woman, still in her twenties. Pretty, with brown hair and large green eyes. Despite her slim form and fine features, she conveyed an impression of sturdiness. Very gently, she took hold of his arm and elbow and tested the range of motion. Rhys grunted as a spear of agony went through his shoulder. Carefully the woman settled the arm back against his midriff. “Pardon,” she murmured, reaching beneath his coat to feel his shoulder. An explosion of icy heat sent sparks across his vision.
“Agghh!”
“I don’t believe it’s fractured.” She withdrew her hand from his coat.
“That’s enough,” Severin said in exasperation. “You’re going to make his injuries worse. He needs a doctor, not some—”
“I have a medical degree. And your friend has a dislocated shoulder.” She untied the green bow at her throat and pulled the scarf free. “Give me your necktie. We have to secure his arm before we move him.”
“Move him where?” Severin asked.
“My practice is two streets away. Your necktie, please.”
“But—”
“Give it to her,” Rhys snapped, his collapsed shoulder on fire.
Grumbling, Severin complied.
Deftly the woman improvised a sling with the green scarf, knotted it at the level of Rhys’s collarbone, and adjusted the edge around his elbow. With Severin’s help, she slid the necktie around Rhys’s midriff and over the numb arm, securing it close to his body.
“We’ll help you to your feet,” she told Rhys. “You won’t have to walk far. I have the proper facilities and supplies to treat your shoulder.”
Severin scowled. “Miss, I have to object—”
�
�Dr. Gibson,” she said crisply.
“Dr. Gibson,” he said, with an emphasis on the “Dr.” that sounded distinctly insulting. “This is Mr. Winterborne. The one with the department store. He needs to be treated by a real physician with experience and proper training, not to mention—”
“A penis?” she suggested acidly. “I’m afraid I don’t have one of those. Nor is it a requirement for a medical degree. I am a real physician, and the sooner I treat Mr. Winterborne’s shoulder, the better it will go for him.” At Severin’s continued hesitation, she said, “The limited external rotation of the shoulder, impaired elevation of the arm, and the prominence of the coracoid process all indicate posterior dislocation. Therefore, the joint must be relocated without delay if we are to prevent further damage to the neurovascular status of the upper extremity.”
Had Rhys not been in such acute discomfort, he would have relished Severin’s stunned expression.
“I’ll help you move him,” Severin muttered.
During the short but torturous walk, Severin persisted in questioning the woman, who answered with admirable patience. Her name was Garrett Gibson, and she had been born in East London. After enrolling at a local hospital as a nursing student, she had begun to take classes intended for doctors. Three years ago, she had earned a medical degree at the University of Sorbonne in Paris, and subsequently returned to London. As was common, she had established her practice out of a private home, which in this case happened to be her widowed father’s residence.
They reached the three-story house, tucked in a row of comfortably middle-class Georgian-style terraces built with crimson cutting bricks. Such buildings were invariably designed with one room in the front and one in the back on each story, with a passageway and a staircase on one side.
A maid opened the door and welcomed them inside. Dr. Gibson ushered them into the back room, a scrupulously clean surgery that had been furnished with an examination table, a bench, a desk, and a wall of mahogany cabinets. She directed Rhys to sit on the examination table, constructed with a padded leather top over a cabinet base. The top was divided into hinged sections that could be adjusted to raise the head, upper torso, or feet.