Jonathan set his jaw, stepped into the hansom, and slid over on the leather seat to make room as Rex gave instructions to the driver and climbed in beside him.
“Still, the girl can take her time,” Rex said as the driver pushed the lever that folded the cab’s padded wooden doors over the knees of his passengers. “At twenty,” Rex added as the hansom jerked into motion, “there’s no rush for her to marry anyone.”
“Unfortunately,” Jonathan muttered. He glanced sideways, noting Rex’s inquiring gaze on him, and he rushed again into speech. “Dear Lady Truelove, my ward is driving me crazy,” he said, forcing a laugh that even to his own ears seemed filled with self-mockery. “I have to marry her off and get her out of my life. Do you have any advice to offer? Signed, Going Mad in Mayfair.”
Rex smiled. “I doubt she’ll be your problem for too long. Once she’s out, the men will be flocking to her like bees to honey, and Paul will have plenty of competition.”
Jonathan began to think escaping with Rex hadn’t been much of an improvement over his previous torment. “Of course,” he agreed at once, and decided to change the subject.
During the remainder of their journey across town, the two men discussed possible winners at Ascot, the chance of the fine weather holding for Irene’s upcoming water party, and the possibility of playing some tennis when they went down to Hampshire, and by the time they reached Fleet Street, Jonathan felt as if he’d regained his equilibrium.
Deverill Publishing had moved its offices five years ago, so to Jonathan, there was nothing familiar about the exterior of the place, but when they walked inside, he was struck at once by something very familiar: the smell in the air, a combination of scents he’d grown up with and knew well—the pungent, vinegary scent of ink mixed with the dusty one of paper.
The sounds, too, struck a chord in his memory—typists busy at their machines, tapping keys, shoving carriage levers and causing the bells to ring, the distant but rhythmic whir and thud of printing presses in the production rooms at the back, the hurried tap of footsteps as clerks and journalists rushed in and out the doors and up and down the stairs. It was a cacophony of sound as familiar to Jonathan as his own heartbeat, and yet, it stirred in him no emotion but simple recognition.
Rex led him to an electric lift operated by an attendant. They were taken to the first floor, where he followed Rex into a quieter, more elegant suite. A secretary, her auburn hair touched with a few threads of gray, looked up from one of two enormous desks piled with stacks of newspapers, magazines, and letters to give them a smile. “My lord,” she greeted Rex as she stood up, then she cast a curious glance at Jonathan.
“This is Mr. Deverill, Miss Huish. Jonathan, this is Miss Evelyn Huish, Clara’s secretary. Stephen’s gone for the day, I assume?” he asked, nodding to the empty desk beside hers.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Huish replied. “I’d be happy to step in, if there is something you need.”
“No, no, Evie, thank you. Go on home. Jonathan, let’s go into my office.”
He followed his brother-in-law around the empty desk and through the door behind it into a spacious office suite with modern morris chairs and masculine teak furnishings.
“Nice view,” he commented, nodding to the pair of large windows behind Rex’s desk that gave a view of Fleet Street and the Strand. To his right, an open door led to a much more feminine room, of pale pink, white, and ebony. “Clara’s office?” he guessed with a grin. “Pink always was her favorite color.”
Rex grinned back at him as he closed his own door. “That’s why we each have our own office. We couldn’t agree on a color scheme.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, here’s where part of your investment went. What do you think of the place?”
“I’d have chosen a bigger building,” he admitted. “Two floors doesn’t give you much room to expand.”
“True, but then, we haven’t thought much about expansion. Five papers are about all we can handle at present.” He gestured to a nearby table with glasses, whiskey, and a siphon. “Care for a drink? Or would you prefer a tour first?”
“A tour, definitely. Then the drink.”
Rex complied, taking him around the offices first, where he met the various accountants, clerks, and secretaries who were preparing to depart for home, then Rex took him through the newsrooms, where journalists were still hard at work.
By the time they returned to the ground floor, all the clerks and typists had departed for the day, and the place was quiet as they moved toward the production rooms in the back. There, the printing presses had stopped, and the sheets of an evening daily were now being run through large, hot iron plates to dry the ink before being folded, bundled, and stacked at the back door by production workers for the delivery boys to take out to the streets.
He was introduced to various production workers, he asked a variety of questions, and he gave opinions when Rex asked for them, but despite all that, he felt disconnected from his surroundings. He’d lived and breathed this business for the first eighteen years of his life, he owned nearly a third of the company, and his surname was still on a brass plate above the front door, but his tour had stirred within him no passion for what had once been the primary purpose of his life. He might just as well have been touring a factory or a brewery—or any of the many other companies in which he had a vested interest. It didn’t seem at all like the family business that had been his dream since before he could walk.
Their tour completed, the two men returned upstairs, where Rex poured them each a whiskey. “We’re having a board meeting next week,” he said as they settled themselves in two of the morris chairs. “Since you’re here, you might as well come, hear what’s going on, give us your thoughts and ideas.”
Jonathan considered, then shook his head. “I lost the right to any say in Deverill Publishing ten years ago.”
“Nonsense. You’re on the board. You bought 30 percent of the shares from Irene and Clara when your father died. It was your cash that enabled us to move the premises out of your father’s house. Of course you have a say.”
“Perhaps, but to be honest, I doubt I have any ideas to contribute. Clara, you, Irene—you’ve been here, you’re involved in the daily operations, you know what the competition is doing, you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of it all the time. In the newspaper business, that’s vital. I’m just a silent investor who’s been thousands of miles away.”
As he spoke, he felt again that familiar restlessness of spirit that had haunted him for so long, and the frustration that always came with it.
What do I want from life? he wondered. A question Marjorie had asked him, one he’d been hard put to find an answer for. If heaps of money and total freedom weren’t enough to satisfy him, what would be?
“You’re far more than an investor,” Rex said, bringing his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Deverill Publishing was supposed to be yours by right.”
“Right of primogeniture, you mean?” Jonathan grinned. “That’s your aristocratic lineage talking, Lord Galbraith. The Deverills are much too middle-class for such things.”
Rex chuckled. “Nonetheless, Clara, Irene, and I all agree that you have the right to be involved.” He paused and took a swallow of whiskey. “If you want to be.”
The comment was offhand, casual, and yet, Jonathan sensed it was nothing of the kind. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not just inviting me to sit in on a board meeting while I’m passing through town?”
Rex hesitated. “Clara, Irene, and I discussed your return in depth before you arrived,” he said at last, “and we all agreed that if you wanted back in, you’d be welcome.”
Jonathan blinked, taken aback. “Come back into Deverill Publishing in an active role?”
“Yes. You mustn’t think I’m jumping the gun by telling you this. Clara felt you might be more open to the possibility of returning if she was not the one presenting it.”
“And she’s all right with this idea?”
&nbs
p; “She was the one who suggested it,” Rex told him, much to his amazement. “But she said she didn’t want you to feel obligated to accept out of any misplaced sense of guilt. Nonetheless, she and Irene want you to know that there’s always a place for you here.”
“But I’m going to South Africa.”
“This is an open offer, naturally. You could take it up on your return. I’m presenting it now as food for thought, something to consider while you’re away.”
“But what would be my duties?”
“Editorial director is one possibility. Or perhaps you could start a magazine division. Or books. Whatever you wanted would be on the table.”
“Whatever I wanted,” he repeated thoughtfully, staring down into his glass. “There’s the rub, as they say.”
Rex didn’t comment, and the silence allowed Jonathan to consider the offer without interruption. He was tempted, he had to admit. A big part of what he’d once hoped so desperately to regain handed to him on a silver platter, just like that. Such a simple solution, so easy, so safe. The past all wiped out, like wiping a slate clean.
Uncertain what to say, he laughed a little. “You’ve caught me by surprise. I didn’t think Clara would let me anywhere near the company, after I bailed on her last time.”
“Your sisters want you involved.”
“You mean they want me home,” he corrected, smiling a little.
“That, too. But they feel it’s only right, since the whole thing was supposed to come to you anyway. Your grandfather wanted it that way.”
“Then the old boy should have made a will.” Oddly, he felt none of the old bitterness as he spoke. His words were a mere statement of fact.
“That’s a mistake we can rectify, at least to some extent. We can make a place for you.”
“Ah, but that’s just it,” he said, realizing that although he might not know what he wanted, he knew what he didn’t. “I don’t want a place made for me.”
“I’ve phrased it badly—”
“No, no. It wouldn’t matter how you phrased it, or who presented it, or what the responsibilities would be. The truth is—” He broke off, considering what he was about to do, then he did it, tossing the last shred of all his old dreams out the window because they were dead and gone and could not be made to live again.
“Deverill Publishing isn’t mine anymore,” he said. “Yes, I know, I own 30 percent, and so does Irene, but the person the company really belongs to now is Clara. She’s the true captain of this ship. She’s earned it, by her guts and her years of hard work. And perhaps it’s terribly plebeian of me, but I think the one who’s done the work and taken the risks, not the one who walked away, should be the one to reap the rewards.”
“I see.” Rex was silent a minute, then he said, “So, it’s off to Africa, then?”
“Yes.”
“What will you do there?”
“I have to deal with Marjorie’s trust investments first, and some of my own as well. After that, I’m not sure. I’ll roam a bit, see what piques my interest. I am aware of dozens of ventures seeking capital, but they need to be investigated.”
As he spoke, he was surprised by his own lack of enthusiasm for the trip. Perhaps because the reality was sinking in that the friend who’d planned it with him wouldn’t be along, or perhaps because deep down he knew that whatever he was looking for wasn’t to be found there—a much more disturbing possibility. Or perhaps, he thought in chagrin, his desire for Marjorie was the reason for his reluctance to go. An irony, that, given all his efforts to keep away from her.
But if he stayed, those efforts would be in vain, and someone’s heart—probably his, and possibly hers, too—would end up in pieces. He’d had his heart broken once already; he really didn’t want to do that again.
And besides, he had no purpose here, not now. He had no desire for Deverill Publishing, and there was no doubt in his mind that turning it down was the right decision, but if he stayed here, what would he do with himself? What did he want?
“Are you limiting yourself to African investments these days?” Rex asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Or would you consider some British ones?”
With an effort, he forced aside the pesky, unanswerable question that seemed to be endlessly rattling around in his brain these days. “I’m always open to a potentially profitable venture, regardless of where it’s based. Why do you ask?”
“I have connections you may be interested in. Men who want to form joint ventures and need men like you.”
That made Jonathan grin. “You mean they need men with money?”
“Well, finding capital always does seem to be the stumbling block in the way of big ideas, doesn’t it? But if you really are looking for investment opportunities, I have a suggestion for you. Join a club.”
He groaned. “First the club, then the old school tie. What’s next? Standing for Parliament and buying a country house I can dash down to at weekends where I shall host parties of great political importance?”
“I’m serious, Jonathan,” Rex said even as he smiled. “Being a member of a club would be a tremendous asset to you. And many of the members will have connections in Africa that might be of use to you.”
As much as he loved to poke fun at his country’s more pompous institutions and traditions, he also appreciated the wisdom of his friend’s advice. “I suppose you’re right, though why any club with sense would have a reverse snob like me as a member, I can’t imagine.”
“I’d recommend Travellers. Given your ten years in America and your upcoming trip, you’d be an asset to the membership. And it’s a club that would suit you. Also, Henry is a man of great influence and he has a membership there, as do I. With us to recommend you, there’s no question you’d be admitted. And until then, you could come as my guest, or Henry’s.”
“Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh of mock forbearance. “You’ve convinced me. After all, I’ve got heaps of time to kill before I leave for Johannesburg. Might as well put it to good use.”
“Do you still intend to return in January?”
“I’m not certain. Since Marjorie seems settled here now . . .” He paused, words suddenly stuck in his throat, and took a moment before he could go on. “I may stay in Africa a bit longer. We’ll have to see.”
“Just don’t stay away ten years next time.” Rex glanced at the ticking clock on the wall and then at the darkened windows outside. “God, it’s half past seven. We’d best be on our way.”
The two men stood up, swallowed the last of their whiskey, and returned downstairs. “There’s a mews just around the corner,” Rex told him as they left the building. “My driver usually waits there, and I’m sure he’s wondering what’s become of me. The family likely is, too.”
“Are you and Clara joining us this evening?” Jonathan asked as the two men started down the sidewalk.
“We are, and the duke’s cook will make no end of a fuss if we’re late. He’s such a temperamental fellow.”
With those words, Jonathan’s thoughts returned to what had happened earlier in the tearoom at Claridge’s, and suddenly, the idea of sitting across from Marjorie at dinner seemed unbearable. Deciding two hours of erotic fantasies about her was enough self-torture for one day, he stopped on the sidewalk.
“You go on,” he said, and as Rex stopped beside him, looking surprised, he hastily invented an excuse. “I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to meet an old friend for dinner.”
“What restaurant? I can drop you.”
“No, no, it’s the opposite direction. I’ll take a hansom.” He started walking backward toward the taxi stand. “Make my excuses to everyone, would you?”
“Of course. Good night.”
Rex resumed walking toward the mews, and Jonathan continued toward the taxi stand, where a hansom cab was already waiting, its doors flung back. The driver straightened up on the box as he approached. “Where to, guv’nor?”
An excellent question, Jonathan thought. In more ways
than one. “Number Twelve Belford Row,” he said on impulse. “Holborn.”
Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a large terrace house and came to a stop, then the hatch in the roof above Jonathan’s head opened.
He pulled a handful of change from his pocket, selected the required sixpence fare, and held it up through the opening. The driver took the coin from his fingers, shoved the lever to open the doors, and Jonathan emerged onto the sidewalk, replacing his remaining change back in his pocket.
“Wait here,” he ordered, then turned around to face the house where he’d grown up, moving forward to stand on the very same square of pavement where he’d stood with a suitcase a decade ago.
He felt suddenly as if he’d spent the past ten years wandering in a desert, walking and walking, and yet only going in circles. How fitting, then, that he should be back in the place he’d started.
The house had been sold upon his father’s death five years before, but despite the change in ownership, it looked the same now as it had when he was eighteen.
Well, he amended at once, not precisely the same. It was night this time around, and lit lamps shone in some of the windows. Rain wasn’t dripping off the eaves, Clara and Irene were not standing in the bay window of the dining room watching him go with shocked, disbelieving faces, and his father was not scowling down at him from between the curtains in the window above. Most important, he wasn’t looking at it from the point of view of a rebellious eighteen-year-old youth, but as a man nearing thirty. It was an entirely different perspective.
He’d left here filled to the brim with anger, pain, and resentment toward his father, his grandfather, and the girl who’d broken his heart, but all of that was gone now, disappearing into the ether during his years in America, fading away so gradually that he hadn’t even noticed the departure.
When he’d stood here ten years ago, he’d had a fire in his belly and things to prove. He’d succeeded. He was wealthy, and by most people’s definition, he was successful, but to him, it was a shallow success. He no longer had the fire of anger to fuel his ambition, and he should have felt at peace, but he didn’t. Instead, he felt empty. His dreams were gone, his best friend was dead, and even though a big piece of what he’d lost all those years ago had just been offered to him on a plate, he’d turned it down.
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