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The Pursuits of
Lord Kit Cavanaugh
Stephanie Laurens
ISBN-13: 9781488088667
The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh
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The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh
There was no denying that, to her, the real Kit Cavanaugh was far more attractive than the ton version had ever been. Even though, in that ton version, for more than five years he had been her romantic ideal—her fantasy gentleman—that status had been based purely on his physical attributes; she’d never liked or approved of his character—the character she and the ton had been led to believe was his.
Although she’d reined in her senses as tightly as she could, she remained excruciatingly aware of him walking close beside her; his strength, the controlled grace investing his powerful frame, and the sheer physicality of his presence impinged on her nerves, made her lungs constrict, and set her heart to beating just a soupçon faster.
He drew her—lured her—as no other man ever had.
As she’d discovered at the wedding, when it came to him, no amount of denial—not even imagined deficits of character—made the slightest difference to that intrinsic, instinctive attraction.
The Pursuits of
Lord Kit Cavanaugh
Stephanie Laurens
CHAPTER 1
September 18, 1843
On the Bath Road east of Bristol
“Steady, lads.” Lord Christopher Cavanaugh, known to most as Kit, drew his matched bays to a stamping halt on the rough grass of the roadside lookout. The high-bred horses shifted and snorted; having recently rested in an inn’s stable while Kit and his companions partook of luncheon, the pair were eager to run again.
But Kit wanted a moment to look ahead—at the roofs, towers, and spires, and the glinting silver-gray ribbon of rivers that made up the city of Bristol, displayed like a colorful patchwork in the shallow valley at the end of their road.
The day was cool but fine, with a fitful breeze meandering up the valley. Eyes narrowing, Kit surveyed the city he planned to make his home. Today would see his first true step into the future he was determined to craft and claim.
He’d been adrift all his life, with no rudder to guide him and no port to call his home. For the past decade—ever since he’d come on the town—he’d had no direction, no goal... No. Not true. His one aim—his single focused goal—had been to avoid the fate his mother, Lavinia, the late Dowager Marchioness of Raventhorne, had planned for him.
She’d been a schemer of near-unimaginable degree, intent on controlling and exploiting the lives of her four children for her own gain. In Kit’s case—as for his older and younger brothers—she’d expected to barter the position of their wives for wealth or, at the very least, valuable influence. Kit had reacted by painting himself as an indolent rake of the sort no sane parent would want anywhere near their daughter. His reputation in the ton had become a solid shield, one that had enabled him to walk society’s halls without fear of being trapped in order to help his younger sister, Stacie, avoid a similar fate.
Lavinia had been a demon in human guise. They—her four children—had been beyond shocked when they’d finally learned the full gamut of her evil schemes. She’d tried to kill her stepson, Ryder, Kit’s older half brother, whom Kit and his siblings adored, in order to replace Ryder, then the marquess, with her eldest son, Kit’s older brother Rand; only Ryder’s remarkable strength, physical and mental, and the support of his wife, Mary, then the marchioness, had allowed them both to survive. Subsequently captured, Lavinia had lost her life in a vain attempt to flee justice.
Even now, the thought of her and her doings chilled Kit’s heart.
His mother had died in the summer of 1837, bringing to an abrupt end a chapter in his and his siblings’ lives that they all had thought would never end. Nevertheless, it had taken years for the effects of her version of mothering to start to fade—for Rand, Kit, Stacie, and their youngest brother, Godfrey, to shed the invisible chains and adjust their now-instinctive, habitual reactions toward others as well as themselves.
Or, Kit temporized, at least shake loose enough of those chains to take up the challenge of shaping their own lives and make a start.
For Rand—arguably the most impacted by their mother’s schemes, but also the oldest of the four siblings and possessing a quiet inner strength similar to Ryder’s implacable will—that had meant becoming a leading light in investor circles, specializing in supporting promising inventions. Less than a month ago, Rand had taken what Kit saw as the final step in emerging from their shared past by marrying Felicia Throgmorton, the daughter of one of the inventors Rand had backed.
Kit had seen Rand and Felicia two days ago, when they’d driven over from their new house to visit with Ryder and Mary at Raventhorne Abbey, the family’s ancestral pile, where, since the wedding, Kit had been staying. Contentment had settled about Rand like a cloak, and a species of happiness had infused his eyes and his expression whenever he’d looked at Felicia, leaving Kit to surmise that Rand and Felicia were well on the way to finding the same sense of settled peace and relaxed joy in life that Ryder had found with Mary.
The atmosphere of happy family life that now pervaded the Abbey was something Kit had never experienced over the decades he’d called the Abbey home. He envied his nephews and niece—Ryder and Mary’s children—the warmth and unqualified acceptance in which they were growing up. The unstated yet all-embracing love and support of their parents.
Having watched Rand steadily making his own way—his own name—in society and beyond, Kit had decided it was time he did the same—that it was time he made a start on assembling the various elements of the life he wanted for his own.
He wanted to build ocean-going yachts. More—he aspired to be the pre-eminent force in the evolving field. In the same way that dealing with investments played to Rand’s strengths and interests, Kit felt that yacht-building would make the most of his longtime obsession with all things sailing and his ability to lead men and act as manager, facilitator, and negotiator.
He was good with his hands, and he was good with his head. He always had been.
When Rand had announced his engagement, Kit had been on his way to Bermuda, chasing down Wayland Cobworth. Wayland was an old friend of Kit’s from Eton days who shared his passion for superbly designed sailing vessels; coming from a significantly less wealthy family than the Cavanaughs, instead of going to university, Wayland had apprenticed to an expert draftsman and ship-designer and was now one of the up-and-coming designers of yachts.
Wayland knew the quality of Kit’s determination—that when he set his sights on achieving some goal, that goal would be achieved; convincing Wayland of Kit’s vision for Cavanaugh Yachts and of the desirability of Wayland’s potential position in the company hadn’t been all that hard.
Kit had had to take ship back to England almost immediately in order not to miss Rand’s wedding; he’d made it, but with only minutes to spare. Wayland had had to finish a design for the company he’d been working for before heading back to England, sailing directly to Bristol.
“It’s bigger than I’d thought,” Smiggs, Kit’s groom-cum-stableman, observed, breaking through Kit’s introspection.
Smiggs was perched behind Kit. Kit had co-opted Smiggs, several years older than he, from the Abbey stables when he’d first gone on the town. Smiggs had eagerly thrown in his lot with Kit, and subsequently, they’d shared many an adventure. Kit considered Smiggs a confidant of sorts and knew he could rely on the wiry man’s support in any situation.
“This is one of the few decent views of the city sprawl,” Kit said, “and last time, we didn’t stop to look.”
“Last time” being two weeks before, when he and Smiggs had driven over for a few days to allow Kit to make the necessary arrangements for taking up residence in the city. Among other things, he’d finalized the purchase of a decent-sized house in a good neighborhood and had discussed leasing a warehouse on the Floating Harbor with the Bristol Dock Company.
“So, Mr. Cobworth should have arrived a few days ago,” Smiggs said.
Kit nodded. “He wrote that his ship would dock on the sixteenth.” Kit grinned expectantly. “I imagine that, after having two days to reconnoiter, Wayland will be eager to forge on.”
“When’s your meeting with the Dock Company?” Smiggs asked.
Kit shifted to draw out his fob watch. “Not until half past three.” He checked the time, then tucked the watch back. “It’s just after two o’clock. We’d better get moving.”
“Will Mr. Cobworth be staying with us?”
Turning his head, Kit glanced at the younger man standing behind the rail alongside Smiggs and smiled. “No, Gordon.” Until recently, Gordon had been a footman at the Abbey, but Mary had allowed Kit to lure him away to fill the role of Kit’s majordomo. “Mr. Cobworth likes his own space, for which we should all be thankful—as he tends to lose himself in his work and often works very odd hours, he’s not a comfortable houseguest.”
“Oh.” Gordon’s eyes had widened. He was of similar age to Kit, but had led a much more sheltered life.
Reminded of the tasks he had to complete before he joined Wayland at the scheduled meeting—during which Kit hoped they would be able to sign the lease on the warehouse he intended to convert to their yacht-building workshop—he faced forward and lifted the reins. “We’ll drive straight to the solicitor’s office and pick up the house keys, then go and take possession.” Of the first house he’d ever owned. Releasing the brake, he continued, “I’ll leave you two to get settled and organized. The solicitor will have the direction of a household staff employment agency. Gordon—you’ll know the sort of people we need.”
“Yes, my lord,” Gordon promptly replied. “You may leave all that to me.”
Kit smiled at the eager pride in Gordon’s voice; he had no doubt Gordon would take to his duties with the keen fervor of one out to make his mark. Thinking further, Kit said, “I left a note at the shipping office to be given to Mr. Cobworth when he landed. I imagine he’ll be waiting impatiently outside the door of the Bristol Dock Company at half past three.” Champing at the bit to get on.
As were Kit’s horses. He steered them out of the lookout and back onto the road.
Then, smile deepening and with a sense of expectation—and, yes, eagerness—welling, Kit flicked the reins and set the bays trotting.
He might have lived for twenty-nine years, yet to his mind, today was the first day of his adult life.
* * *
Across a long, highly polished table, Kit, with Wayland beside him, faced five members of the board of the Bristol Dock Company.
“So”—the chairman, a Mr. Hemmings, exchanged a swift glance with his fellow directors before returning his gaze to Kit—“are we correct in thinking that you anticipate hiring local men to build your ships?”
Kit nodded. “To build and, ultimately, to service our yachts. Once we’ve established Cavanaugh Yachts as a going concern, we intend to look into sailmaking as well, either to invest in an established business or commence one of our own.”
He was unsurprised by the direction of the chairman’s probing; he’d done his homework and knew the Dock Company was under increasing pressure from the local council over the loss of jobs on the docks. With the advent of steamships and the changes in materials and practices building such vessels entailed, many men who had previously had steady employment in the shipyards were now out of work. Restless, unhappy, and at a loose end—prime targets for those sowing social discord.
“I understand,” Kit continued, “that we should be able to find workers with the expertise we require reasonably easily.”
“Oh, indeed—indeed,” huffed another of the directors. “Good to know that the old ways of sail aren’t going to completely disappear, what?”
Just two months earlier, Brunel, who had launched his first ocean-going iron ship, the SS Great Western, five years before, had launched his latest wonder, the SS Great Britain, the first propeller-driven, ocean-going iron ship—both ships built in the Bristol yards.
Steam power had changed the face of ship building, tossing many shipyard workers on the scrap heap.
Cavanaugh Yachts held out the prospect of giving some of those workers a new lease on working life.
Kit smiled. “Just so. And from my earlier visit, I gathered that, what with the difficulties the Floating Harbor poses to larger-draft ships and the consequent drift of shipyards and warehousing to Avonmouth, there are quite a few opportunities to secure space of the sort we need on the docks here.”
At that, the company men exchanged another meaning-laden glance, then Hemmings clasped his hands before him, leaned forward, and met Kit’s gaze. “As you say, my lord, we’ll be happy to see Cavanaugh Yachts take up residence on our docks.”
The company secretary, a Mr. Finch, a desiccated man in sober black, cleared his throat and looked down as he shuffled several papers. “We understand you’re interested in the warehouse off the Grove.”
Kit nodded. “That seemed the most suitable. We require ready access to the harbor, and in size and location, that seemed the best of the properties you showed me earlier.”
Wayland shifted; several inches taller than Kit, he was long and lanky and exuded the air of a man who possessed little patience for the minutiae of life. Wayland fixed the secretary with his dark gaze. “Do you have any other properties similar in size and location to that one?”
Finch blinked at Wayland, then looked down. “No—that’s really the only warehouse in that stretch that’s immediately available.”
As if suddenly reminded of something, the chairman glanced at Kit. “You propose to commence work soon?” An “I hope” hovered in the air.
Kit exchanged a swift look with Wayland, then replied, “If we can come to an agreement today, then we are prepared to start hiring immediately.”
“Ah...” Finch caught Hemmings’s eye. “As to that...when I said the warehouse was immediately available, I was referring to the fact
that it’s not formally leased. However, there’s a charity group that has been using the space free of charge—I expect they will need a few days to vacate.”
“How long?” Wayland’s tone suggested the point might influence his and Kit’s thinking.
“Oh—just a few days.” Hemmings sent the secretary a sharp look.
One of the other directors leaned forward to suggest, “Shall we say by the end of the week?”
The other company men, including Hemmings and Finch, nodded and, faintly anxious, looked at Kit.
Kit glanced at Wayland, hesitated for effect, then said, “I suppose we could use the next few days to hire workers and organize supplies.” In truth, a few days was no skin off their noses, but given they’d yet to discuss the details of the lease, keeping the directors off balance seemed wise.
Wayland replied with a somewhat sulky shrug.
Kit looked back at Hemmings and Finch. “Perhaps, gentlemen, we should get down to brass tacks.”
The directors were very ready to do so, but neither Kit nor Wayland were new to the art of negotiating deals. Both Ryder and Rand had taken ten percent stakes in Cavanaugh Yachts, and Kit used their names and backing to further strengthen his and Wayland’s hand. The discussion went back and forth, revisiting this point before agreeing on that.
Finally, the directors agreed to a price and conditions that Kit and Wayland were prepared to accept, including a stipulation they had pressed for—an indefinite option to purchase the warehouse outright after a period of two years.
While Wayland had a thirty percent stake in the company, Kit remained the majority owner. Consequently, when Finch prepared and presented the lease, it was Kit who signed first, then he passed the document and pen to Wayland while doing his best to conceal the elation that filled him.
They’d made their first major commitment and had secured the space they needed to forge on.
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