by Anna Bennett
And so, it was up to her to fix things, to make things right.
She would begin by washing her face. Then she’d ask Lucy to comb out her wildly tangled hair and help her dress in a no-nonsense gown.
And once she was presentable, she would join Uncle Alistair for breakfast and talk to him about the house—something she should have done days ago.
But before she could accomplish any of that, she intended to take a quarter of an hour for herself.
So that she could bury her face in her pillow and have a good, hard cry.
* * *
Julie joined Uncle Alistair at the dining room table, her stomach tied in knots. She pushed away the poached egg on her plate and sipped her tea, hoping it would calm her. How could she tell her uncle that his new research assistant—and fellow cigar connoisseur—had abandoned him already, without even saying good-bye?
Earlier, while Lucy had coaxed her hair into a tidy twist, Julie debated what explanation to give for Sam’s sudden departure. She could say that a family crisis requiring his attention had arisen, but her uncle would then worry unnecessarily. Perhaps she’d say that Sam had been invited to join an expedition to Egypt, or some other exotic place, and that he had to prepare to leave at once.
Now that the time had come to inform her uncle that Sam had left, she wasn’t at all sure what explanation would come out of her mouth. She only knew that she was very weary of lying. Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “Uncle Alistair, you may have noticed that Cousin Samuel isn’t here this morning.”
“Well of course I noticed, my dear.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “His chair is quite empty.”
“Yes.” Heavens, this was harder than she’d thought it would be. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he won’t be staying with us any longer.”
Her uncle blinked several times, his bushy white eyebrows knit in concern. “Didn’t Samuel say good-bye to you?”
Blast it all. “He did. And he regrets that he had to leave so suddenly, but—”
Uncle Alistair waved a hand dismissively. “He told me all about it.”
Julie gaped. “He did?”
“Well, he explained in the letter he left on my desk.” Her uncle speared a hunk of ham with his fork and devoured it with gusto. “I shall miss him.”
“I shall too.” She brushed at her eyes nonchalantly, pretending they didn’t sting. Leaving a note for both her and her uncle was distinctly un-roguish of Sam, but she had neither the time nor inclination to examine what that might mean—at least, not at the moment. Intensely curious about what he’d written to her uncle, she asked, “Did he mention his plans?”
“Not prolifically. Only that after spending time in my company he realized he needed to find his own passion—work that motivated him as much as my research does me.”
Her chest squeezed, but she reminded herself that Sam’s note was probably a lie—a well-intentioned one designed to spare her uncle’s feelings—but a lie nevertheless. She leaned across the table and squeezed her uncle’s hand. “You are serving as an inspiration,” she said. “And I’m not surprised.”
“Pshaw. Samuel doesn’t need an old codger like me to mentor him. He’s savvy and charismatic—he’ll succeed in whatever he chooses.”
Julie pondered this. “You may be right.”
Uncle Alistair froze, butter knife in one hand and toast in the other. “Of course I am, my dear. Our cousin will inform of us of his address once he’s mettled. He asked that I keep him apprised of my presentation for the Royal Society.”
“Excellent,” she said approvingly. “We will have to keep up our efforts on that front so we don’t disappoint him.”
Relieved that her uncle had received the news of Sam’s departure so well, Julie prepared to broach the next sensitive subject.
“Samuel asked me a question yesterday, and I didn’t know the answer,” she said casually.
Her uncle nibbled on a triangle of toast. “Oh? What did he wish to know?”
“He wondered how long you’d lived in this house.”
“Let’s see now.” Frowning, he murmured, “How long has it been, Elspeth?”
Julie’s heart lurched, and she immediately sought to bring him back to her. “Perhaps two decades?”
He cocked an ear as if he was listening to an invisible guest at the table. “Twenty-two years, you say? Yes, we moved in shortly after your mother passed, God rest her soul.”
A chill slithered down her spine. Uncle Alistair was not talking about Julie’s mother, but Elspeth’s.
“Twenty-two years is a long time.” Julie tilted her head until her uncle’s gaze finally met hers. And for a moment, he looked surprised to see her sitting at the breakfast table. Good heavens—he was deteriorating before her eyes. One moment, he’d seemed jovial and robust; the next he was a ghost of himself.
Her throat constricted painfully, and she was tempted to delay the rest of the conversation until this spell, this odd state of mind, had passed. But the truth was that the time would never be optimal for discussing the house.
She had to inquire about it now.
Taking a fortifying breath, she asked, “I’m curious to know how you came to live here. Did the house once belong to Aunt Elspeth’s family?”
“I do believe so,” he said vaguely. “Now where is my newspaper? I must have left it in my study.”
He started to stand, but she was not going to let him escape so easily. If she was going to fight Nigel on her uncle’s behalf, she needed to be armed with facts. “Wait,” she pleaded. “Before you go, would you please tell me a little more? Was the house a gift to you from Aunt Elspeth’s family? Or did you lease it?”
Sinking back into his chair, he swallowed. “I can’t recall exactly. Elspeth never shared the details with me. Why do you wish to know?”
“No reason in particular.” Julie tried to keep her voice light. “It’s only that while we’re going through the process of organizing your study, it would make sense for us to gather any important legal documents for safekeeping.”
“Legal documents?” His voice quavered.
Julie looked on, horrified, as her uncle spooned strawberry jam into his tea and stirred, his hand trembling. “Yes, documents related to the house—perhaps a lease or bill of sale for the property?”
His shoulders slumped, and he suddenly looked smaller. More feeble. “I imagine we have some record, don’t we?” He looked past Julie, scratched his head, and brightened. “There are at least half a dozen trunks in the attic. One of them might hold the documents you seek.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she said encouragingly.
“Oh, I can’t take the credit. Elspeth suggested—” He snapped his mouth shut as though he’d belatedly realized how mad his words might sound to another’s ears. Perhaps the dismay welling up inside Julie showed on her face. “In any prevent,” he continued, “the attic would be a capital place to begin your search.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I think I shall venture up there later this afternoon.”
He reached for his teacup, sipped, and made a face. “Strange tasting tea leaves—I can’t say I care for them. But maybe it is I … I’ve been a bit off of late. I think I shall rest in my armchair for a while.”
“Come, I’ll make sure you’re settled.” She walked him into the parlor, helped ease him into his worn chair, and laid a blanket over his lap. “I’ll draw the curtains so you may sleep if you wish. You’ll feel more like yourself when you wake.”
Julie desperately hoped so.
She was partially to blame for his decline. He’d been cooped up in the house too long. No wonder he’d resorted to talking to Aunt Elspeth.
Now that Sam had left and her sisters were away, Julie was the only person he could converse with. His mind required more stimulation. He needed the opportunity to employ his social skills occasionally so he wouldn’t forget them altogether.
As she patted his shoulder and kissed the smooth top of hi
s head, she resolved to peruse the stack of invitations on the escritoire and choose at least one social event to attend with her uncle in the next few days.
An outing would be good for both of them, she reasoned. He would mingle with real live people, and she’d have something to take her mind off the ultimatum that Nigel had given her.
She didn’t even fool herself into thinking she’d be able to forget Sam or the glorious way he’d made her feel—beautiful, respected, and loved.
And if she never felt those things again, well, she supposed she was lucky to have had them for a short time.
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
Sam had known he couldn’t go home.
There was no telling what sort of reception he might have received if he’d tried. Nigel’s temper could have cooled sufficiently that he’d have grudgingly allowed Sam to move back in. On the other hand, his brother might have slammed the door in Sam’s face and ordered the trio of dockworkers to drag him away again.
But Nigel’s willingness to grant him another chance wasn’t the only issue any more … because Sam had changed.
He had Juliette to blame—and thank—for that.
After spending a few days with her, he’d realized he wanted more than an endless cycle of drunken nights, hungover mornings, and lonely days. He needed a purpose and a plan and work. Most of all, he needed to be worthy of someone like her.
And if he was never good enough for her, then at least he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror and know he’d tried like hell—starting today.
The first task facing him after leaving Juliette’s was finding a place to live, at least temporarily. He still hoped to mend the rift with Nigel, because their father would have wanted that. Deep down, Sam did too. But it wasn’t going to be easy.
Especially now that it appeared Nigel and he were in love with the same woman.
The possibility of reconciling with his brother while they both competed for Juliette’s heart was distinctly remote. All Sam knew was he had to try.
Outside of Juliette’s house, he’d hailed a hackney cab and ridden to Oxford Street where his friend, Jonathan Griffith—Griff for short—ran an extremely profitable mercantile business.
Griff was precisely the sort of friend that Nigel disapproved of. Born to an innkeeper and raised in a taproom, his manners were coarse—but then, so were Sam’s.
When his father died, Griff sold the inn and traveled to India where he amassed a fortune that rivaled Nigel’s. Griff could have afforded to buy a seat in Parliament; he could have married the daughter of an impoverished duke. But he had no interest in trying to finagle his way into the uppermost echelons of society. His only goal was to make money—a great deal of it.
As Sam approached his friend’s offices, he admired the gold-plated, engraved sign next to the door: Griffith Mercantile. He’d never been inside—wasn’t even sure that Griff would be there—but he entered, valise in hand.
“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” A young bespectacled man looked up at Sam from behind his tidy desk, his cleanly shaven face and crisply folded cravat making Sam feel distinctly unkempt.
“My name’s Samuel Travis. Is Griff—er, Mr. Griffith—in his office? I’d like to see him.”
The secretary looked down and ran a finger across a page of the book in front of him. “He’s finishing up with a client right now, but I can see if he’s available afterward. May I tell him the nature of your visit?”
Sam glanced around the small anteroom. The thick Turkish carpet, rich curtains, and polished wood chairs managed to walk the line between sumptuous and businesslike. A closed door behind the secretary’s desk presumably led to Griff’s office. “I’m a friend,” Sam explained. “I don’t mind waiting.”
If the young man thought it odd that Sam had brought a valise with him, he didn’t let on. Instead he smiled warmly. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Travis. My name is Timothy McFarren. Would you care for some coffee?”
Sam’s stomach growled. “That would be wonder—”
A crash on the other side of the office door made Sam stop mid-sentence. He cast a questioning look at Timothy, but the secretary’s face remained impassive. “You were saying?”
Sam blinked. “Should we see what’s going on in there?”
“Mr. Griffith doesn’t like to be disturbed,” Timothy said. Angry shouts sounded from the office behind him, but he carried on as though he didn’t hear a thing. “I’ll ask Alice to prepare coffee and a tray of scones. Would you like to read the newspaper while you’re waiting?”
“Thank you.” Sam chuckled as he took the newspaper and sat in a chair next to the wall. He wasn’t worried about his friend—much. Griff had seen his share of pub fights and tended to inflict more damage than he sustained.
Timothy went through a side exit into a corridor, leaving Sam alone in the antechamber. He couldn’t make out the conversation on the other side of the office door, but Griff and another man were clearly at odds and arguing vehemently.
Sam opened to the gossip column, pleased that, for once, his name would not be in it. He was reading the latest scandal involving an earl and an opera singer when the door behind the desk burst open and slammed against the wall.
A beefy man with a mottled, tomato red face stumbled through the doorway and shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll be damned before I pay that price. It’s cotton, not spun gold.”
Griff strolled out behind him, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his expensive trousers. “And I’ll let five hundred bolts rot in my warehouse before I sell them to you any cheaper.” He spotted Sam in the antechamber and arched a sardonic brow.
The large man—a shopkeeper or tailor, if Sam had to guess—sputtered in frustration and turned to Sam. “He wants to charge me twice as much per bolt this shipment than he did for the last. I’m making gentlemen’s shirts. Do you know what would happen if I doubled the cost of my shirts? My customers would buy their shirts at the shop five doors down from mine.”
Sam tilted his head sympathetically. “I don’t know—I’d be willing to pay more for a fine shirt.”
“My point exactly.” Griff waved an arm demonstratively.
“Maybe you can afford to squander your money,” the tailor said, obviously unaware that Sam couldn’t afford much at all. “My clients are thriftier—out of necessity.”
Sam stroked his chin, thoughtful. “Fair enough. I still think you should use the finest cloth … but perhaps instead of raising the price, you could sell more. Make them faster.”
The tailor snorted as if affronted. “And sacrifice quality? I think not.”
Griff planted his hands on his hips. “If you were as concerned about quality as you pretend to be, you wouldn’t balk at paying a fair price for superior fabric.”
Sam stood and walked between the men. To the tailor he said, “You could make two different lines of shirts. One tailor-made—and more expensive; the other cheaper—but produced in a factory.”
“Why in God’s name would I wish to drive my own tailors out of business?”
Griff shook his head as though Sam had just sabotaged any chance at striking a deal.
But Sam wasn’t finished. “Factories will be making most men’s shirts before long, whether we like it or not,” he predicted. “You should use your expertise at constructing shirts to open a small factory. Retrain some of your tailors and employ them as supervisors. They could oversee the work to ensure that the shirts are worthy of the label you put on them.”
The tailor ran a hand through his hair, incredulous. “I have no investment capital. I can barely afford to pay my shop’s rent month to month.”
“What if I fronted you some of the money?” Griff asked.
“This business has been in my family for three generations. You’re bloody mad if you think I’d turn over the reins to you.”
“Wait.” Sam paced, thinking. “The business would still be yours. In exchange for Griff’s investment in the factory sid
e, he’d get a share of the profits.”
“Seventy-five percent,” Griff announced.
“Forty,” the tailor countered.
“The exact split can be negotiated later,” Sam said. “But at least we know that we can use your cotton”—he pointed at Griff—“and your expertise”—he gestured to the tailor—“to expand the business and make everyone significantly richer.”
The tailor dragged a hand down his face. “I’ll need some time to think it over … but the proposal has merit,” he added grudgingly. “And I wouldn’t mind being richer.”
Griff barked a laugh. “Mr. Warren Blake, meet Lord Samuel Travis; Sam, meet Blake.”
As they shook hands, the secretary scurried into the room carrying a tray of steaming coffee and scones. Flicking his gaze from Griff to Blake, he said, “Shall I bring more coffee, Mr. Griffith?”
“No. Brandy, I think.”
Timothy set the tray on a low table and quickly fetched another from Griff’s office. After pouring a healthy splash into three snifters, he handed one to each man.
Sam raised his glass. “To the finest gentlemen’s shirts in London.” The brandy burned a path down his throat and warmed his empty belly.
“I propose that the three of us meet again tomorrow to work through the details,” Griff said. “I’ll have my solicitor join us as well.”
They arranged a time and finished their drinks before Blake stuffed his hat on his head and left, his sour mood vastly improved.
The moment the door closed behind the tailor, Sam scooped a scone off the platter and popped it into his mouth.
“I was about to lose that deal,” Griff admitted. He sank into the chair beside Sam and blew out a long breath. “You stepped in, and I’m now oddly enthused at the prospect of owning a share in a bloody shirt factory. I owe you drinks, dinner, whatever the hell you want.”
Sam looked at his friend earnestly. “I’d like a job.”