Michael came to his feet. He was comprehensively pleased with the outcome of his new tack with respect to her. It was plain she didn’t believe he had any real interest in the import-export business, no doubt assuming his assertion to be a ruse; he was looking forward to correcting her misapprehension. His interest in the area had been growing for some time, and he suspected he could learn quite a lot from her. Being a female had likely meant she’d had to prove her knowledge to a higher level than her brothers or other males. She’d had to excel to claim the position she held. Who better for him to learn from?
He felt sure he would enjoy her lessons, and aside from all else, the endeavor would keep them both pleasantly occupied during this day of enforced inactivity on the mission front.
He had little confidence in her ability to readily accept inactivity, enforced or otherwise. Consequently, satisfying his aim of keeping her safe had translated to finding a way to stick by her side while ensuring her hours were filled with non-threatening pursuits.
Feeling smugly satisfied with his achievements of the morning thus far, he walked beside her into the front hall.
He waited patiently in the hall while she went upstairs to fetch her cloak and bonnet.
The butler, who Cleo had called Morris, hovered, waiting to see them out. When Michael glanced his way, Morris cleared his throat. “If you will permit, my lord”—Morris glanced swiftly up the stairs, confirming his young mistress had yet to reappear—“on behalf of the household, I would like to tender our thanks for your actions in…er, extricating Miss Hendon from her foray last night. Her excursion had been preying on our minds.”
Michael raised his brows. After a moment, he murmured, “I understand that it must be difficult to rein her in.”
Morris primmed his lips as if to smother a laugh. When he could manage it, he replied, “Indeed, my lord. It wasn’t easy when she was a slip of a thing, and now, given her age, that’s quite beyond our reach.”
“How old is she?” Michael knew she was younger than he, but he’d given no real thought to her actual age.
“Twenty-eight, my lord. Lady Hendon hasn’t quite given up hope, but as we all know, Miss Hendon will go her own road.”
“Indeed.” The sound of a door closing above stairs, followed by the patter of light footsteps, put an end to their exchange, one Michael had found both encouraging—as he was quite sure he was meant to—and entertaining. Did Morris and the Hendon staff but know it, he needed no encouragement when it came to Miss Hendon.
He stood in the front hall and, expectantly, gazed up at the head of the stairs.
Then she appeared; a shaft of weak sunlight struck through the skylight in the hall ceiling and bathed her in a gentle glow. She saw him and smiled—an entirely innocent, looking-forward-to-a-day-spent-in-his-company, ready-for-adventure smile. With her cloak over one arm, her bonnet dangling by its ribbons from one hand, and her reticule swinging from her other wrist, she swept gracefully down the stairs.
And with his eyes and mind filled with the sight of her, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen her for what she was in the first instant he’d laid eyes on her. He must have had some sort of veil restricting his vision.
As she halted before him, he smiled and reached for her cloak. “Allow me.”
With a regal tip of her head, she let him drape the heavier fabric over her shoulders. With that done, she stepped to face the large mirror hanging above a side table.
He watched her don her bonnet and fuss with the ribbons, tying them, staring at the lopsided result, then, making a frustrated sound, yanking the yellow ribbons free and tying them again—and still the result wasn’t up to scratch. He’d noticed on the previous two days that, when it came to her coiffure or her bonnet, she seemed peculiarly sartorially challenged. Hiding a grin, he reached out, grasped her arm, and turned her to face him; he brushed her hands aside, ignored her frustrated humph and irritated frown, straightened her bonnet, then tied the ribbons in a neat bow just below her left ear.
By that time, she’d narrowed her eyes at him, but when he stepped back and waved her to the mirror, she whirled, looked, raised her fingers to the bow, then humphed again.
Turning back, she cast him a glance from beneath her lashes. “Thank you.”
His grin deepened into a smile. “It was my pleasure.”
He heard the snort she couldn’t quite smother, but when he offered his arm, she didn’t hesitate to take it.
Morris, his features commendably impassive, leapt to open the door.
Michael escorted Cleo down the steps, paused on the pavement to—under her curious gaze—instruct the young groom he’d left waiting by the railings that, should there be any word from Morgan’s Lane, he could be found at the Hendon offices and gave the direction. The boy saluted and took off to convey the message to St. Ives House.
Tom had been walking the horse and now brought the carriage to a halt by the curb. Michael helped Cleo in, then glanced up at Tom. “The Hendon Company office on the corner of Fenchurch and Lime.”
* * *
Cleo settled in the chair behind her desk and wondered how on earth she was to keep her mind on business while faced with the distraction of the sprawling masculine figure currently subsiding into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Luckily, Fitch had stacked all the letters and orders she needed to read and sign, together with the ledgers she needed to check and approve, on her blotter. The task before her was simply a matter of starting at the top and working her way through the pile.
She hauled in a silent breath and, with ruthless ferocity, focused her mind on the first letter.
Somewhat to her surprise, her business mind took over. It was, apparently, less easily distracted…or perhaps it was because he, definitely to her surprise, made no move to reclaim her attention.
Steadily, letter by order by ledger, the pile reduced, until an hour and more had passed in a silence broken only by the scritch of her pen and the turning of pages, and she found herself shutting the last ledger.
Even before the ledger fell closed, he shifted in the chair, swinging to face her. “Done?”
She looked up and met his eyes. “Yes.”
“Good.” He fixed her with a direct, almost challenging look. “I wanted to ask—”
He proceeded to ply her with questions that, very quickly, proved that his interest in import-export trading was no sham. She found herself pressed by the undeniably insightful questions to put aside her reservations and rise to the challenge of sharing her knowledge of her world with him.
“The safest ventures,” she replied to one leading question, “are undoubtedly those seeking to supply an established market that is currently experiencing, or likely to shortly experience, a significant undersupply. Tea is one such commodity—we’ve yet to achieve oversupply, and it’s doubtful we will any time soon. However”—she paused to lend her words weight—“as in most areas of business, the safe investments are rarely those with the highest returns.”
“So how does one identify less-safe investment opportunities—meaning those involving products that, imported or exported, are likely to deliver richer rewards?”
Lips curving, she replied, “If I knew that, I’d be richer than that fellow Golden Ball ever was.” She waved dismissively. “That said, there are certain…I suppose one might call them qualities, that indicate—”
Michael found himself hanging on the talented Miss Hendon’s every word. He had seriously underestimated the breadth of her knowledge, the depth of her understanding and experience. He’d expected to feel quietly smug over having so efficiently arranged to kill two birds with one stone—to claim her time so she wouldn’t find any way into danger while simultaneously expanding his knowledge of an area of investing he’d started to think held the promise of engagement and the sort of intellectual return he’d been seeking; he’d expected to be genuinely but only mildly interested.
He hadn’t expected to be swept off his f
eet, to find his mind awhirl with dozens—nay, scores—of ideas and possibilities, all conjured by the information she so readily and unselfconsciously imparted.
The office clock finally interrupted them, chiming melodiously to mark twelve o’clock.
She looked surprised.
He was, too. They’d been talking, engaged and deeply absorbed, for well over an hour. He caught her eye. “Is there a tavern nearby? One we might lunch at? The least I can do while so determinedly picking your brain is to feed you.”
She chuckled. “Yes—all right. The Pig and Whistle is just around the corner in Church Street. We can continue our discussions there.”
They didn’t stop talking—he asking, she explaining—as they went down the stairs. He broke off only to tell Tom where they were going and to recommend he find someone to hold the horse and get a bite himself, then Cleo and he strolled arm in arm along Fenchurch Street, with her explaining the relative risks of trading across the Atlantic versus the Baltic or nearer-European routes.
It was Sunday; although the tap of the Pig and Whistle was crowded, the dining room held only two other couples. Michael escorted Cleo to a table for two in one corner, and over an excellent steak-and-kidney pie, they continued their exploration of import-export trading unabated.
Eventually, Cleo couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. They’d pushed aside their empty plates, and she was cradling a half pint of cider while he was sipping from a pint of ale. She raised her glass and took another sip, studying him over the rim. Regardless of their surroundings, just a glance would be enough to inform anyone familiar with the species of his station in life; the quality of his clothes, the commanding way he held himself, and the controlled and oddly graceful strength that invested his every movement all screamed that inescapable truth.
She would never have imagined—had never in her wildest dreams considered—that a gentleman-nobleman would have any real interest in the ins and outs of the world she inhabited. That he might be sincerely interested in, to the point of being fascinated by, the scope of the deals and the mechanics of the enterprise she managed. Yet Michael’s interest—and his enthusiasm—were patently genuine. His questions had ranged over a wide swath of that sector of the business world with which she was deeply familiar, but in particular, he’d delved into the investment side of both import and export. She studied him for a moment more, then fixed her eyes on his and asked, “Why are you so interested in the business of import-export trading?” She waved briefly, indicating his appearance. “You’re a duke’s son. You don’t need to involve yourself in such things, yet I accept your interest is real. I just don’t understand from what it springs.”
His lips twisted in a wry grin. “A duke’s son.” He saluted her with his glass. “You—and most of society—would be surprised to learn just what that entails, even for sons such as myself, who are not the direct heirs.”
She set down her glass, crossed her forearms on the table, and opened her eyes wide. “So what does being a second-or-worse duke’s son entail?”
He grinned, sipped, then set down his glass. “For many, but certainly for all Cynster men, we’re expected to make our mark in some way. Those who succeed to the title bear the responsibility for all the entailed lands and the family coffers. Most people understand that. For the rest of us, though…” He paused, his gaze on his fingers, still clasped about the glass, then went on, “The best way to explain it is to consider the Cynster males of my father’s generation. Not counting my father, there’s five of them—technically, six, but I’m not going to count Simon Cynster, as he’s much younger, a son from a second marriage. Of the older five, Richard Cynster manages his wife’s estate in Scotland—that’s almost as big an undertaking as managing a ducal estate. Vane Cynster runs a very large holding in Kent, and his primary interest is all things farming, especially crops and orchards. Anything to do with such things, we all know to ask Vane. Demon Cynster runs a hugely successful horse-racing stud. Gabriel Cynster is the family’s investment specialist—he deals with all the usual financial investments. Lucifer Cynster is an expert on antiques and antiquities, especially jewelry and old books.” He looked up and caught her eye. “Each and every one of them has a particular field they’ve made their own.”
His lips curved, and he raised the glass. “So that’s what’s expected of us second-or-worse sons.”
She watched as he swallowed a long draught of ale. When he lowered the glass, she said, “So you’re thinking of making investing in the import-export trade your specialty.”
It wasn’t a question, yet he nodded. “Investing has always called to me. I’ve worked alongside Gabriel on and off for years, but some…element was always missing. He invests primarily in stocks and bonds, and that’s always seemed too theoretical—divorced from real life—for me.”
She nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s harder to be excited about the deemed value of a piece of paper as opposed to the price you’ll get for a particular cargo.”
“Yes.” His eyes lit. “That’s it exactly.” He hesitated, then leant forward. “What do you think of—”
Another hour passed, and Cleo started to feel her head spin. Not only was Michael serious about establishing an import-export investment firm but he also had ideas. Some of them wild—just the sort to appeal to her. And, she realized, to him, too. Some she felt compelled to dismantle and deem unworkable, but others, such as exploring the possibilities inherent in the Baltic amber trade, had, she judged, very real potential—and he had the wherewithal to make such a business work.
Indeed, he had wealth to invest, connections to exploit, and a passion that seemed to have grown wings.
As she listened to him extoll the possibilities, she felt an inner glow at knowing that it had been her information that had helped to stoke his burgeoning commitment.
Finally, the hovering serving girl brought them to a sense of the time. Cleo gathered her cloak and prepared to stand.
Michael tossed coins on the table, then looked at her. “What now? Back to Clarges Street?”
She blinked and recalled the necessary appointment she had to keep. Yet she hadn’t enjoyed herself this much in…forever. Not ever. She didn’t want to lose his company—and how very strange that seemed. And…
She met his gaze and took the bull by the horns. “No, actually. I’m due at my mother’s cousin’s house for afternoon tea. It’s an absolute condition of my remaining in Clarges Street with only the staff and no chaperone—I have to attend Cousin Maude’s Sunday afternoon tea.” She paused, then added, “Maude is the wife of my mother’s cousin, Geoffrey Cranmer.”
Michael frowned. “Geoffrey Cranmer. I’ve heard that name, I’m sure.”
“Very likely. Geoffrey is the head of a highly successful import-export firm.” Cleo drew in a breath and said, “If you like, you could come with me and meet Geoffrey. I’m sure he’d be happy to share his experiences with you.”
Although he’d kept his gaze on her face, Michael hadn’t missed the way her fingers had tightened on her reticule, or the way her chin had—challengingly—risen. But the challenge wasn’t directed at him. He studied her expression, the greeny-hazel of her eyes, then quietly asked, “Will it bother you, or your Cousin Maude, if I accompany you?”
She’d already shared so much with him that day—far more than he’d had any inkling she might, or that she even could—and now she was offering him more. But he wouldn’t accept if his presence might in any way make life difficult for her.
Cleo stared at him. Evidently, he could see that she was in two minds. On the one hand, much as a committed mentor, she felt an odd responsibility to do all she could to further his evolving passion. It was a passion that spoke to her, that enthused her, too, and meeting with Geoffrey would keep that passion burning and, more, might well steer it in productive directions.
Against that, she could readily envision the reactions of all the family members present if she turned up at Geoffrey and Maude’s h
ouse with Lord Michael Cynster in tow…
It took only an instant to weigh the two issues. She wasn’t such a coward, and this, after all, was still a part of her adventure.
She smiled and firmly stated, “No. It won’t bother me.” She wouldn’t allow it to. “You’re very welcome to accompany me, and I know Geoffrey and Maude will be delighted to meet you.”
They would be, too; she could guarantee that.
Michael searched her eyes; all he saw was resolve and certainty. And the chance to meet Geoffrey Cranmer was too good an opportunity to unnecessarily pass up. “If you’re sure, then yes, I would like to accompany you.” He rose and held out a hand.
After an instant’s pause, she laid her fingers across his palm. Closing his hand—not too tightly—he helped her to her feet. He held her cloak for her, then—again—assisted her in settling her bonnet.
Her grin was rueful, but “Thank you” was all she said.
As he escorted her from the tavern and down the street to where Tom waited with the carriage, Michael marveled at the turn his day had taken. From the moment he’d elected to drop his reserve and share his hopes and dreams with her…they’d taken off. And now, they were heading to… He turned to her. “The address?”
“South Audley Street—the southern end.”
He relayed the information to Tom, then handed Cleo up and joined her in the carriage. As they started off, he returned to his interrupted thought: Now, they were heading to a meeting that held the potential to transform his nascent ideas into reality.
He settled against the squabs and slanted a glance at the lady beside him.
Who would have thought Miss Cleo Hendon would prove to be such an inspired and inspiring choice?
She’d insisted on claiming the position of his partner. He smiled and faced forward. He no longer had the slightest interest in arguing that point.
An Irresistible Alliance (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 5) Page 15