by Betina Krahn
“What are you doing here?” He pulled his gaze from Lauren to address his mother.
“We knew you were keeping watch,” Caroline said, sailing past two officers, “so we thought we should do our part and bring you sustenance.”
“You refused to rest sufficiently after your head injury,” Lauren said, following her inside, “but at least we can see that you take proper nourishment.” She glanced at the scowling constables.
“Really, officers, do you think these two ladies capable of making off with tons of disputed cargo in a hamper?” He turned to Caroline, relieved her of her basket, and offered her his arm. “Father will be delighted.”
Lauren followed them through a warren of shelving and stacks of goods and then up a long run of metal stairs that rang under their feet. The warehouse office was furnished with a desk, a polished meeting table, filing cabinets, and imported curiosities. It was clearly intended to create an aura of substance and success for the sales part of the company.
They found Horace dozing, sprawled in a chair with his feet propped on an ottoman. He started awake at Caroline’s touch, sighed at the sight of her, and rubbed his face briskly.
“I brought you some food . . . knowing you neglect yourself when there’s business brewing,” Caroline said as she set the basket on a nearby desk. “Cook packed your favorites: roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, cucumber sandwiches, and pear and strawberry tarts.”
He started to smile, but caught sight of Lauren.
“What is she doing here?” He sat up straighter.
“She is my accomplice,” Caroline said with a wink in her direction. “Or I’m hers. It’s hard to say which.”
Rafe looked at Lauren quizzically and she gave him a determined smile. “Your mother was planning to bring you some food when I arrived to see you. She invited me to come along.” After they opened the baskets and a bottle of wine she edged closer to him and said, “I need to have a word with you.”
He paused in the middle of heaping his plate.
“That sounds ominous.” He picked up a glass of wine and headed for the door. She followed, and he settled on an upper step in a way that made room for her. She sank beside him and for a moment watched him eat. He groaned with appreciation as he tore into a splendid piece of roast chicken and washed it down with wine. After a moment he turned to her. “What is this word you want?”
“I had a visitor earlier this evening. Mrs. Gilbert Trimble.”
He gave up trying to recall the name, shrugged, and took another bite of chicken.
“She and her daughter, Meredith, were the ones whose boat overturned . . . that day . . . on the river.”
He stopped chewing and made himself swallow.
“So, she came to pay homage to the angel who saved her?”
“Not really.” Her face colored at that half-truth. “She came to tell me that things are not right at her husband’s old firm, Consolidated Shipping.”
“Consolidated?” That name he did remember. The world of London’s shipping and import-export firms was not so large that companies didn’t know their competitors, large and small. Consolidated was a modest-size company that had been sold twice in recent months and was becoming known for undercutting customary prices on commodities.
“You know the company?” she asked, watching him make connections.
“By reputation. It’s changed hands lately, but I can’t recall any specific owner associated with it now.”
“That may be because it’s owned by a group of investors. Mrs. Trimble says her husband was concerned about some of the goings-on in their warehouse. He was the manager of it and was killed in an accident.”
“Ah, yes. The widow and the daughter.” He straightened, realizing Lauren might have some interesting news. “What kind of goings-on?”
“Something about cargo and materials appearing in the warehouse out of nowhere and then disappearing again without bills of sale.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Customs officers take a very dim view of ‘ghost cargo.’ They expect proper documents on every tin of tea and slab of teak. Goods that don’t flow through proper, well-taxed channels get companies into trouble.” He waved a hand at the mound of goods stacked in the middle of the warehouse. “Case in point.”
“What’s happening?” she asked, following his wave to the sight of the stacked cargo. “There are constables at the door and standing watch outside. Your mother said your father is determined to take the government to court if necessary to prove that salvage was necessary.”
“There will be a legal tussle, but our solicitors say we have a good chance to make our case. At worst they expect we will be forced to pay the damnable tariffs.” He studied her for a moment, sensing something more was involved in this late visit. Word of sketchy practices at a competitor’s warehouse might be news, but it was hardly reason for an evening visit like this.
“So what do the late Mr. Trimble’s bookkeeping troubles have to do with us?” He propped an elbow on a step above and leaned closer, catching a faint scent of roses.
“The new owners manage Consolidated through an agent and a crew of men he brings with him. They’re crude and drink a lot. Mr. Trimble’s old head clerk heard them laughing and saying that Townsend warehouses are old and made of dry wood.”
He searched her eyes, seeing in them a disquiet he now understood. Talking about a competitor’s properties in such terms was bad form at best—an ugly threat at worst.
“So she thinks they might decide that our warehouses are conveniently flammable?”
She nodded. Those sunrise eyes of hers were plate-glass windows into her soul. She was genuinely concerned for him. The thought sent a wave of pleasure through him that he hoped didn’t show.
“Why are you bringing this to me tonight?”
She looked as if she’d been accused of high crimes.
“I . . . I . . . was afraid if I just sent a note you wouldn’t take it seriously. And I care about everyone’s welfare and safety.”
But he could see he’d caught her off guard.
“I’m not just ‘everyone.’ I’m a man you kissed twice.”
“You counted?” she said.
“They were memorable. It wasn’t that hard to keep track.”
“That’s interesting. I’d lost count.”
He laughed quietly. He wanted her to admit it . . . was almost desperate to make her confess the same tension and expectation he felt. He stroked the side of her face with his knuckles. She was sleek, rosy-warm, and her pupils were dilating.
“I . . . just wanted to warn you . . . mischief... may be afoot.” She was staring at his lips and he returned that attention in kind. A moment later she pulled her gaze from him to look out over the warehouse. “This has brick walls. It should be safe.”
“Walls do not keep you safe.” His voice grew husky as he leaned closer. “They may give you a feeling of security, but inside every stone fortress there is something that can catch fire.” He leaned closer still, turning her face back to him. “Wherever people are, no matter how fortified they are, there will be weaknesses and vulnerabilities.” He saw her lips part and realized her breath was coming faster, too. “Have you ever caught fire, Lauren?”
“Have you?” she whispered on a breath.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Just now.”
His lips touched hers and those three words became both a confession and a prophecy. He had caught fire the day he woke in the belly of a ship with her petticoat and her arms around him. He had continued to catch fire every time he came close to her, every time he touched her. And he would continue to do so because he was combustible in a way he had never realized, and she was the unique spark that ignited him.
Rafe Townsend . . . scholar, businessman, and fortress . . . wanted a woman. One specific woman.
Her.
And for this moment his arms were around her and he was kissing her and she was kissing him back. God, was she kissing him. His whole body, ev
ery fiber and sinew was awakening to—
The sound of the office door opening above brought him crashing back to reality and she jerked back as he released her. His mother’s voice was a douse of cold water.
“I was telling Horace about the woman who came to see you, Lauren. I’m afraid I may have left something out. Perhaps you should come and give him the particulars.”
* * *
Lauren rose and followed her inside. A moment later Rafe followed, bringing his food with him. She found Mr. Townsend behind his desk, feasting on tarts that smelled heavenly. She recounted for him what happened during Mrs. Trimble’s visit and the news that Consolidated Shipping was now owned by a group that operated through a disagreeable agent. When she revealed the agent’s name he frowned.
“Never heard of him,” he said. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to poke around a bit.”
“There was talk about Townsend having old, dry wooden warehouses,” she continued. “And the men saying it were not exactly the sort you want talking about your business.”
“Agreed,” Horace and Rafe said together, almost in the same breath.
They looked at each other in surprise, and Rafe snatched one of the delicious-looking tarts and bit into it while his father sputtered.
“There is one thing more,” she said, looking at Rafe. “This whole business of what happened aboard the ship. Wild stories about my disappearance have made several newspaper editions, and my ‘reappearance’ may cause more comment. That, combined with news of an inquiry into Townsend Imports and constables at your warehouse, may cause even more public interest.”
She looked at Rafe. “I believe it is important that we continue to appear in public and make it seem everything is proper and expected. Lady Anne Drummond actually paid my aunt a call a few days ago to make certain we would attend her dinner party.”
“Lady Anne called on you about an invitation? That is unheard of.” Caroline looked to her husband. “We were invited, you know. I accepted.”
“I’m not budging from this warehouse until this thing is settled and Ledbetter and his government toadies can’t lay a finger on my cargo,” Horace declared, jabbing the papers on his desk with a finger. He glared at Rafe and then at Lauren. “You two started this mess. You’ll have to get us out of it.”
Caroline sighed and Rafe looked as if he wanted to punch his father.
“I think we’ve done all we can here, Lauren,” Caroline said coolly. “We’ll leave the hampers. I suspect my husband will be eating out of them for some time to come.”
She took Lauren’s arm and turned her toward the door. Lauren glanced at Rafe as she exited, but he was locked in a staring match with his stubborn father. She and Caroline were in the carriage and underway when Rafe’s mother spoke again. “Don’t mind Horace. He’s a donkey’s rear sometimes, but he’ll come around.”
“He didn’t seem overly worried about this news,” Lauren said.
“You have to understand, he’s met many challenges and faced difficult situations before. He’s not easily rattled, but that doesn’t mean he’s not concerned.”
Sixteen
Lord Theobald Drummond held a title and small estate in Ireland but was better known in England for woolen mills he had mechanized early on and produced a significant fortune for his family. His home in Belgravia was nothing short of opulent and his wife, Lady Anne, was a renowned hostess. Their dinner parties were occasions not to be missed.
At any other time Lauren would have been delighted, even honored to attend, but just now she had a lot on her mind. She spent a difficult night thinking of all that had happened on the Clarion and worrying that she had managed to fulfill Rafe’s worst expectations of her during their time together. Early on he’d thought her stubborn and impetuous. Had her solution to their captivity and cargo problems merely confirmed that opinion?
Fires, he’d said. He had kissed her on the steps, but the things he said made it seem more lustful impulse than true affection. She thought of her own response . . . kissing and wanting to have his arms around her, his body against hers. There was clearly a dose of lust in her, too. But she was beginning to think there might be more than desire. Perhaps a lot more.
She finally had to admit that she wanted him to join her at the Drummonds’ because she wanted to see him, wanted to know him better and to have him understand there was more to her than progressive ideas and outrageous behavior. She wanted him to like her.
Thus it was a tremendous relief to enter the Drummonds’ grand salon and find Rafe there in handsome evening dress, chatting amicably with their host and hostess. Beside him was his friend Barclay Howard, also in fine evening clothes and even finer spirits. The moment she and her father and aunt appeared in the doorway, the Drummonds spotted them and smiled. Rafe excused himself and made straight for them, drawing the attention of the guests already present.
“My dear Lauren, lovely as usual.”
Her heart skipped as he leaned close to drop an air-light kiss on her temple. Leave it to him to manage the perfect public greeting for making an impression of prenuptial bliss. The bruising on his face was gone and his light hair fell in tapered layers over the cut still healing on his forehead.
Every aspect of his appearance seemed calculated to draw the eye, and—sweet mercy—how it worked. She couldn’t take her gaze from him.
Her pulse picked up.
He offered her father his hand, her aunt a gallant kiss on the hand, and herself his arm as an escort to greet their host and hostess—but not before Barclay presented himself for a greeting and a kiss on the cheek that even she thought too familiar.
“Miss Alcott,” he said. “I see you have recovered from your ordeal. Sakes, you are more ravishing than ever.”
Signaling his annoyance with a heavy breath, Rafe tried to steer her away from Barclay toward the Drummonds and his mother Caroline. Before they had taken two steps a familiar face appeared in their way.
“Miss Alcott, how good to see you again.” Mrs. Buffington, wife of Admiral Archer Buffington and a fellow member of their parish school board, was looking her over as if she were goods in a hat shop window. “What ordeal did that young man just reference? Has something happened?”
Clearly Mrs. Buffington had missed the gossip altogether.
“It was nothing really.” Lauren cut Barclay a sharp glance. He would bring up the very stories they were here to lay to rest.
“Nothing?” Barclay was not deterred. “It was an adventure of the first order.” He turned to the matron. “Once again, Miss Alcott has—”
“Has yet to greet our host and hostess,” Rafe intervened, trying to rescue her from what promised to be an interrogation.
“There you are.” Lord Drummond arrived to thwart their escape attempt. Lady Anne took Lauren’s hand and drew her close for an airy kiss on the cheek.
“So glad you’re well enough to attend. And I look forward to hearing all about it.”
“About what?” Mrs. Buffington was truly interested now, having caught a whiff of something important. “Have you been ill, Miss Alcott?”
“Have you not been following the papers, Mrs. Buffington?” Lady Anne said with a twinkle of mischief. “Miss Alcott has quite a following in London for her uncommon deeds. Most recently she was thought to have disappeared for two days during the riot at the Docklands.”
Marigold Buffington’s mouth gaped. Lauren would have enjoyed it if she hadn’t known the trouble it presaged. Rigidly pious Marigold was as tightly laced as the queen’s corset.
“I’m afraid it was my fault,” Rafe inserted with the good sense to look chagrinned. “I went charging down to the docks to try to talk some sense into that mob and left her in the care of Barclay Howard . . .” Rafe indicated Barclay, who smiled and gave a half bow, before he added, “. . . which turned out to be a horrible idea, knowing how vulnerable he is to any suggestion from a lady. Apparently Miss Alcott was afraid for me and insisted he escort her to the docks, too. Things got
a bit rowdy, and I was injured. Crewmen from one of our ships in the harbor recognized me and carried me out of harm’s way. Miss Alcott, being a most intrepid and determined young woman, insisted on attending me.” He sighed. “I was literally senseless at the time and in no condition to object.”
Grateful for Rafe’s intervention and surprisingly self-effacing manner, she took over the story with as much candor as she could manage.
“It was harrowing, I will say,” she continued, “being surrounded by that riotous mob. But my first concern was Mr. Townsend’s health. When he was injured, I was desperate for help and called for Mr. Howard. He had gone with me but was across the quay, fighting his way through the crowd.” She gave Barclay a glowing smile that he acknowledged with a nod, somewhat mollified. “I finally found help in those crewmen from the Clarion, a ship which happened to belong to Townsend Imports. With their crew’s help I was able to get him to safety and help him to recover.”
Rafe, at her side, looked at her with what appeared to be adoration.
“Hip hip hooray for London’s Angel,” Barclay said with a grin, lifting his glass to lead a toast. To her chagrin, the other guests followed his lead. She blushed so thoroughly that Rafe stepped in.
“I was fortunate to have such a capable nurse,” he said. “Unfortunately my luck did not extend to the Clarion and her captain. Poor man suffered a heart attack and set the ship ablaze with a lantern as he fell.” He took a deep breath. “We were forced to flee a burning ship.”
There were gasps and murmurs at that, and sympathy all around. Lauren was soon busy sharing the details of how they came to be near the docks: the children waiting for them at the Seven Sisters. Out of desperation, she pulled Aunt Amanda into the narrative, emphasizing that her aunt had taken care of the children while Lauren went to see what happened to Rafe. While Amanda told them about the hungry children—how they gobbled up food and stories with equal eagerness—Lauren was able to escape the attention and join Rafe near an open terrace door. The cool evening air coming from the garden was a godsend.