He nodded. “As you wish.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Your tray, Lady Westleigh.”
Caroline heard the impudent grin in Penny’s words, but graciously decided not to dismiss her. Anyone would think she was the first countess in history to order cream cakes, honey pastries, jam tarts, fruit cake and a large pot of chocolate for breakfast.
It had been an easy choice. The rest of the world might fail you over and over, but cake could always be depended upon. “Thank you, Penny. That will be all.”
As soon as the maid shut the door Caroline made short work of a jam tart, carefully avoiding any glances at the looking glass. Actually watching the extra pounds deposit themselves on her hips and bottom would not help her current dark mood. But honestly, how else was she supposed to behave when she hadn’t seen Stephen in nearly two days?
After he’d lured her away from the dining table for that evening of exquisite bliss, taking her not once but three times, he’d damn well left her again, sometime in the early hours of yesterday morning. To make matters worse, after a brief appearance to wish Jane a safe journey to Westleigh Park he disappeared back into his library, stating he had piles of correspondence to attend to and wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone.
He hadn’t even joined them for dinner last night, leaving her and Taff to endure the shortest, quietest meal on record. After gulping her baked salmon to escape the oppressive silence and Taff’s fixed stare, she’d ended up with an awful tummy ache. Similar to what she might suffer today if she finished all the items on this tray. If, of course, she didn’t drop dead from the sheer quantity of sugar first.
Enjoying a mouthful of rich chocolate, she began to pace the floor with military precision, until her robe flapped around her legs like a mini green whirlwind. Exercise. Yes, exercise might clear her head enough to understand Stephen’s avoidance. What wouldn’t help was that glazed cream cake glistening suggestively just two feet away.
“But I haven’t done anything wrong. Hand on heart, not guilty,” she mumbled through a swirl of cream a moment later, after cramming the entire sinful treat into her mouth.
“Perhaps. Depends on the crimes,” came a deep voice behind her, and she spun around, choking in an attempt to swallow the stupidly large portion of cake.
Coughing madly, eyes watering, her humiliation doubled when Stephen pounded her back and a piece of chopped walnut flew across the room.
Oh God.
“Better?” he asked mildly, but his lips twitched and she valiantly resisted the urge to stab him with a cake fork.
“You might have knocked!” she gasped when her breathing was near-normal again. “And what do you mean depends on the crimes?”
“I did knock. Obviously you were far too immersed in your cake orgy to hear me. Hmmm, those pastries look good, I might just…”
“Move away from the cake tray,” Caroline growled. “Nice and slow and nobody gets hurt.”
His eyes widened. “You know, George always said you were possessive about sweet things and I thought he was just exaggerating. But it’s true, isn’t it? If I attempt to take one of those pastries I could well lose a hand. Well, well. What would you do if I cut off your supply?”
She smiled brightly. “Ensure you suffer in unimaginable ways.”
“Hmmm. I wonder if Bedlam has a ward for this particular affliction…ow. Caroline, really, a cake fork? Careful, or you’ll overturn the tray and then who’ll be sorry…ow. By the by, if those are your portions eating for one, I shudder to think what the kitchen staff will have to do for pregnancy whims.”
And just like that her fight, and appetite, vanished. A baby. What he wanted most in the world, what she had also desperately wanted once upon a time. But if he left her bed so easily now, what would he do once he ticked ‘impregnate wife’ off his list?
Caroline shivered. She was still convinced for them to have a chance, getting with child straight away would be the worst possible outcome. But what choice did she have? A woman’s duty—a countess’ duty especially—was to provide an heir quickly and safely, not ponder ways to avoid conception.
“Don’t get too excited,” she said finally, lamely. “It could take months for me to conceive.”
“Nonsense,” Stephen replied, his wicked grin almost making her smile back. “It’s all about the level of dedication to the cause. And I am very, very committed to this.”
“What if I’m barren?”
His smile slipped, then righted itself. “Don’t be silly, of course you aren’t barren. That is nerves talking. If you have any concerns, I’m sure Mama or Emily would be happy to answer them. Or Dr Murray. He really is a wealth of knowledge. Now, you need to get dressed. We are due at the docks to meet Kimbolton and co.”
An hour later they were ensconced in one of the luxurious crested Westleigh carriages and speeding toward the docks on the River Thames.
“Do you know where we’re going?” she asked, curiosity at meeting these mysterious friends of Stephen’s late brother overshadowing the acute unease still lingering from Jane’s impassioned words. Even after Stephen’s reassurances.
It just didn’t add up. Jane wasn’t a silly woman given to foolish flights of fancy even if she had suffered greatly. And Stephen’s father had been one of the most respected men in England prior to his untimely death. Far too stern perhaps, but extremely smart, she could definitely see where Stephen got his uncanny intelligence.
So Andrew and Jane were both wrong? The government was wrong? Well, she supposed it was possible. Meeting these men in person would help her decide whether to jump in heels and all and help Stephen continue his brother’s allegedly good works, or take over Jane’s letter-napping. And learn to use a pistol. Or perhaps a knife. Louisa’s footmen were carefully trained to keep her safe, they probably wouldn’t even blink at teaching her.
“Of course I know where we’re going,” Stephen replied, startling her. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing their setup. It’ll be interesting to see how efficiently they are running operations, whether cost savings can be made, if increasing or decreasing the scale would make any true fiscal impact.”
“Decreasing scale? Fiscal impact? Oh, my lord, your sweet talk makes me feel all shivery inside.”
“Mock all you like, but it’s just as well I’m well versed in this particular language. If you give a banker an inch they’ll take five miles. Besides, if I was dirt poor and running my estates into the ground, how on earth would your cake addiction be funded?”
Caroline grinned. “I’d put you to work on the streets. A chicken coop strength tester perhaps?”
“Really? You think that is my best non-mathematical skill?”
“Hmmm,” she said, leaning back on the thickly padded leather squab, pretending to give the matter deep thought, absolutely refusing to admit his total proficiency in bed. “You are quite good at waltzing and do fill out a pair of trousers admirably well.”
“Admirably well?”
“At a stretch. I suggest a dancing master.”
“And have legions of mentally unstable elephants blather about the weather and maul my feet in preparation for Almack’s? No thank you.”
“Pity chimney sweep has already been ruled out. I believe we could also cross horse jockey from the list.”
“True. I know, a brandy taster. Paid to drink. What could be better than that?”
“You’d be sick of it in a week,” she scoffed.
He clasped his hands together. “A vicar? Delivering booming sermons every Sunday while benevolently overseeing the welfare of my flock’s immortal souls?”
“Please. We are trying to think of professions with at least a hint of plausibility.”
Stephen gave her a mock-injured look. “What’s not plausible about me as a pious man of the cloth?”
“Apart from everything? Why, nothing at al
l.”
“Ha. Well, Lady Perfect, what would you do? Considering you can’t sew a stitch. Or take instructions. Or coordinate your limbs.”
“All those skills are vastly overrated. I would tread the boards, be feted as the next Sarah Siddons,” she said loftily.
“Tour the countryside?”
“Good gracious no. Open with Edmund Kean at Drury Lane.”
“Pardon me, I’m sure. But I’m not certain he’d appreciate a leading lady twice his height. Or being stomped on when he made an excellent joke.”
“If you truly believe your jokes are excellent, there really is no hope for mankind…oh look. It seems we’re here.”
Stephen glanced out the window. “Welcome to Wapping. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to be on your best behavior. No scratch that, an actual lady’s best behavior.”
“You mean like Flora Hartley, er, Lady Shilton?” she asked, with a sweet smile.
He scowled and brushed a piece of lint from his dark brown jacket. “Just get out of the damned carriage. And stay close. All sorts make their living here, some legitimately, some not so much. The East India marine police force is increasing in numbers all the time, but they cannot be everywhere.”
They climbed out of the carriage, the surroundings nearly taking her breath away. Gigantic ships with furled white sails rippling gently in the breeze waited patiently while men scrambled to load and unload them. Wooden docks stretched for miles and miles, and rows of solid brick four-storied warehouses kept a watchful eye over proceedings.
“My goodness, how absolutely lovely!”
“Thank you,” said Stephen, tucking her arm through his. “I do try.”
“Not you, the docks. They look so new.”
“Well they aren’t old. These docks only opened in 1805 or 1806.”
“1805,” announced a deep voice to her right, and she turned to see a very handsome, well-dressed black haired man standing about ten feet from them. “Ninety acres all up, room for three hundred vessels. All in all, a most excellent facility.”
“Kimbolton,” said Stephen, smiling as he propelled them forward and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you. May I present my wife, Caroline.”
“Ah, I thought this fetching creature must be Lady Westleigh. Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am, what a lovely gown you’re wearing,” the baron finished, tightly grasping her gloved hand and sliding his lips over her knuckles.
Every hackle rose at the smooth tone and practiced, over familiar gesture. Not to mention the naked lust that flashed in his cool blue eyes.
It was hate at first sight.
***
In the blink of an eye Caroline’s body went from soft and fluid to so rigid she could be used to hold up an unfinished building.
Stephen gritted his teeth as his light-hearted mood slipped away and a familiar weight resettled itself back on his shoulders. What the hell was the matter with her? He’d always known she could take a while to warm to strangers, but it wasn’t wary politeness stamped on her expressive face, it was out and out dislike.
“Lord Kimbolton,” she replied stiffly, pointedly yanking her hand from the baron’s grasp.
“So,” Stephen said too heartily, to make up for his wife’s embarrassing lapse. “Will you show us around?”
Kimbolton chuckled. “Of course. Do come this way, we’ll start with my office.”
As they followed the baron into the warehouse Stephen tugged sharply on Caroline’s arm and gave her a warning glare, but she merely smiled. Hell. For some reason, amusing Caroline had transformed into evil Caroline, and short of bundling her into a burlap sack and heaving her back into his carriage there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. But by God, if she crossed the line or did anything to jeopardize this new working relationship, she would be one sorry countess.
“So, Kimbolton,” he said, intrigued by the variety of scents dancing under his nose. Brandy definitely. But something heavier, spicier. Tobacco maybe? “How did you manage to acquire such a prime spot for the group’s shipping interests?”
“Pure luck, actually. The construction of these docks was a private venture by a group of merchants and speculators. M’father, and Wynnie’s for that matter, were both amongst the original directors.”
Stephen nodded, impressed. “Excellent forward thinking there. The old docks are an absolute shambles. I recall a gentleman at one of my clubs saying a ship he’d invested in took nearly two months just to exit the port, it was so overcrowded!”
“Very common. Of course it doesn’t help when crime is rampant, poorly paid men become lazy and easily distracted. We made a decision very early on to offer top wages to our dockhands, transporters and sailors. Not only does it inspire loyalty, but ensures our strict timetables are almost always met. Occasionally the weather might delay a shipment, but never lack of men or skill.”
“A very sound practice. Do something similar myself, always found you get far more out of a well-fed, well-paid employee. But what do you bring in? I can smell brandy, and…tobacco?”
Kimbolton unlocked the door of a large, richly-appointed office and led them inside. Caroline immediately unhooked her arm from his and wandered over to peer out of a wide glass window overlooking the cobbled paths and wooden quay, and further out the expanse of busy waterway that was the Thames.
“You have a good nose, Westleigh. Yes, we import both, along with rice and wine. Can I offer some tea? Ah, Lady Westleigh, admiring my view. Most adequate, is it not?”
“Perfect for keeping an eye on everything, I daresay,” replied Caroline. “Especially those lowlifes who might attempt criminal activities right under your nose.”
“True, but fear not, madam, we are fortunate to have the finest of police forces right in the vicinity. Those who would lie, cheat and commit blatant acts of piracy are swiftly apprehended and dealt with.”
“Very reassuring, Lord Kimbolton. But what about other crimes?”
The baron paused and tilted his head. “Other crimes, Lady Westleigh?”
“Yes, such as mur—”
“I’m sure all manner of offences are punished, my dear,” Stephen interrupted, about ready to strangle her. Jam tarts and cream cakes would be henceforth banned from his households, they turned his wife into a prime candidate for Bedlam. Well, more so than usual.
Caroline glanced his way, her eyes spitting jade flames. Thankfully a knock sounded and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne and Sir John Smythe sauntered in, accompanied by a wave of sickly fragrance. Ugh. Christ Almighty, he hated perfume.
“About time you two joined us,” said Kimbolton. “Where is Rochland?”
“You can’t have forgotten already,” drawled Sir John. “Recruitment drive, dear boy.”
“A recruitment drive?” asked Stephen. “For what?”
“The British Army. No one can resist Rock’s speeches about honor, glory, scarlet uniforms that raise skirts like the wind, or the sheer amusement in stacking dead Frenchies three feet high…oh my word. I do beg your pardon, madam, didn’t realize we had a lady present.”
Stephen frowned. Sir John’s words seemed perfectly contrite, yet he’d swear the man knew of Caroline’s presence before even walking in the room. Obviously his first instinct in disliking the obnoxious dandy was correct.
“Gentlemen,” he said evenly. “May I present my wife. My dear, Sir John Smythe and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne.”
Caroline didn’t budge from her spot. “Delighted,” she murmured through the coolest of smiles.
“Well now,” announced Kimbolton, clapping his hands together when the silence stretched to a full uncomfortable minute. “How about we all proceed down to the ship in dock and take a tour? It will have to be brief I’m afraid, I’d hate to interrupt their preparations. They sail with tonight’s tide to the colonies.”
�
�Splendid idea, Kimbo,” said Wynn-Thorne. “But first, Westleigh, you remember we told you of Hallmere’s favorite project? How would you and your lovely wife like to meet one of the lucky recipients of his charity?”
Stephen glanced at Caroline, bracing himself for the start of a violent storm. Yet instead his wife beamed at the man, all honey and charm.
“I should like that very much, my lord,” she purred, strolling over to the shorter Wynn-Thorne and curling an arm through his. “I must admit I didn’t know Westleigh’s brother well at all, but his good works sound absolutely fascinating. Perhaps you might show me around personally? The thought of such a big ship and all that deep water is quite, quite alarming.”
“Of course! Of course, Lady Westleigh. It would be my very great pleasure. Come this way.”
Which left him, Kimbolton and Sir John to trot behind like a trio of damned lap dogs. What the hell was Caroline playing at, batting her eyes, swaying her hips and using that low, syrupy voice like she wanted to drag Wynn-Thorne into a closet and yank his trousers off? As for that horseshit about being scared of water, he and George had taught her to swim on their Eton breaks. God knew she’d pestered, cajoled and blackmailed them for lessons until she was as strong in the water as they were.
Stephen flexed his shoulders. Avery Wynn-Thorne. Bradford Shilton. Obviously the days of second son solidarity were long gone.
“Something the matter, dear boy?” asked Sir John, a smirk playing about his lips that made him yearn to remove it with a closed fist.
Stephen smiled. “Not at all. Just thinking about some tiresome appointments I have later in the day.”
“What a relief, I thought for a moment you might be cross with our Wynnie. All the ladies love him, I think it’s that Scottish brogue. He collects perfumed handkerchiefs like some do tin soldiers.”
“How fascinating. Fortunately my wife rarely carries a handkerchief. And she abhors perfume. Told me once it is the mark of someone who needs to bathe more often.”
Kimbolton laughed, much to Sir John’s obvious annoyance. “It’s my personal belief that cleanliness is next to godliness. Lady Westleigh is clearly a woman of refined sensibilities.”
To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 19