The Offer

by Sara Portman

  Lucy snapped to attention when they were approached by an impatient-looking man in a stained waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves.

  “Good morning,” he clipped. “You are Mr. Brantwood, I presume?”

  “I am,” Bex answered. “And you are Mr. Sheckler?”

  The man nodded and looked at the ladies with a narrow, questioning glance.

  “This is the Comtesse de Beauchene,” Bex provided. “And her companion, Miss Betancourt. The comtesse is interested in learning of potential opportunities for investment, so I took the liberty of inviting her on my visit. I hope that is not too much trouble.”

  Mr. Sheckler looked at Lady Constance with considerably greater interest and gave an awkward partial bow. “No trouble. Welcome, my lady.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lady Constance said with more imperiousness than Lucy had ever seen her display. “You should know that Miss Betancourt is not only my companion, but my secretary as well. I rely heavily upon her good judgment and expect that she will have numerous inquiries.”

  And that, Lucy decided, was why Lady Constance was one of the best people she had ever known. She lifted her chin proudly and allowed herself to be subjected to the man’s dubious perusal.

  Finally, he nodded. “Ask what you will. Let me show you what there is to see.”

  There was, as it happened, a great deal to see. He walked them through the cavernous shed where he clarified there were exactly twelve hundred of the power looms in question. He introduced them to men presented as tacklers, beamers, pirners, and loomers. As Bex did not request clarification, Lucy could only assume he already understood their functions. She resolved to inquire later as to the specifics of each role. Though she had lingering discomfort at the thought of a lengthy conversation with Bex, she did not want to pose a question to Mr. Sheckler that exposed her total ignorance.

  He took them to the boiler house where the steam was raised, and the engine room, where the steam engine provided power for the looms. Their party was presented with so much information, Lucy barely had time to digest it all, much less consider inquiring as to additional facts. There was one question, however, that seemed ever more pertinent as their tour continued.

  Finally, Bex gave voice to it. “Everything seems very much ready and in order, Mr. Sheckler. Why aren’t the looms in operation?”

  Mr. Sheckler’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “There’s been a delay.”

  “Another delay?” Bex asked. “There have been too many delays already. What is the cause of this one?”

  “We don’t have the raw cotton yet. We heard from our man in Liverpool and he needs more time.”

  “More time for what?” Bex asked, his voice rising.

  Mr. Sheckler shook his head. “It’s all up to the brokers.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Bex demanded.

  “Look,” Mr. Sheckler said, backing away from the menace in Bex’s expression. “Every bit of cotton in Liverpool is sold by a broker. Every spinner who gets any of that cotton buys it with a broker. The brokers decide who gets it and how much.”

  “Was this surprising news for you, Mr. Sheckler?” Bex’s voice had calmed, but Lucy knew his frustration was simply more veiled.

  “We knew what we needed. We had a man with us who was a broker for one of the importers and he assured us he would be ready with what we needed. Now he says he needs more time.” Mr. Sheckler threw up his hands as though absolving himself of responsibility for the entire matter.

  “Why?” Bex asked.

  “He doesn’t say. Only that he needs more time.”

  Bex was silent. Lucy could feel her heart pounding. She knew how critical the success of this investment was for Bex and how quickly he needed progress to be made. The delay must be a devastating blow. She couldn’t keep silent.

  “But Liverpool is so far,” she said. “Can you not buy cotton grown nearby?”

  Mr. Sheckler just stared as though she had spoken in another language.

  Bex sighed and leaned down to speak privately with her. “The raw cotton is not grown in Liverpool,” he said with quiet patience. “It is grown in America. The ships arrive in Liverpool.”

  Lucy’s eyes fell. She had displayed her ignorance after all. “Well,” she said, “if there is a problem in Liverpool, can’t the ships arrive in a different port?”

  Mr. Sheckler laughed derisively at her last question. “Well, blimey, she’s solved it. I’ll just pen a letter to the Americans and tell them where to sail their ships. I’m sure they’ll sail right up the Grand Union Canal and drop it right at our doorstep.” He grunted, turned his back on them both, and walked away, mumbling something about bringing women in the first place.

  Lucy glared after him.

  Bex lay a hand on her arm. “Never mind him,” he said. “He’s as much frustrated with his shipment as he is with you. Truth is, we can’t tell the ships where to arrive. They arrive in Liverpool and that’s that.”

  Lucy crossed her arms in front of her chest. “He could have simply explained that, instead of mocking me so rudely.”

  “I agree,” Bex said. “I’m certain he is not accustomed to inquisitive women.”

  “There is nothing wrong with an inquisitive woman.”

  Bex smiled at her rationale. “You’ll have no argument from me, I assure you,” Bex told her, palms up in supplication. He stepped forward and stood too close to be entirely appropriate—close enough that Lucy had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

  Involuntarily, her heart tripped.

  “I have learned I rather prefer inquisitive women,” he said softly.

  Just when Lucy thought perhaps she would recover from his devastating rejection, he would do something like that and wreak devastation all over again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Lady Constance was not a woman who pursued anything in half measures.

  If any doubt of that fact had remained after the trip to Hertfordshire, it was cleared away when Bex arrived at the comtesse’s London residence later that week for the much-anticipated performance of Madame Castellini. When she had referenced an intimate concert, he had envisioned considerably fewer people in attendance. He could guess credit for the event’s considerable attendance was at least in part due to continued curiosity about the comtesse, but then he had never had a particular preference for the opera. Perhaps the others did.

  Bex had not come for the music.

  Or rather, Bex had not come for the singer. The invitation provided him the opportunity to further his cause with Ashby, but he would have come regardless. Were he a deaf man, he could not have kept himself from coming to watch the musician at the pianoforte this evening. Lucy had occupied every shadowed corner of his mind from the moment she’d proposed they become lovers.

  Lovers.

  What a captivating lover she would be—inquisitive Lucy, with her torturously expressive face and incapacity for artifice. He was plagued with visions of her in his arms and in his bed. The desire consumed him, even as he endeavored to set it aside—to remember the reasons he’d had no choice but to decline and the reasons why his attentions much be focused elsewhere.

  Ashby. Birmingham. They were ever more important now that Hertfordshire grew less promising by the day. Those should be the focus of his attention. Vowing to force it so, he scanned the grand parlor, brightly lit as clearly no expense had been spared in illuminating the performance. The room was crowded with faces, but Ashby was tall and Bex spotted him quickly enough.

  He had already begun to move in Ashby’s direction when he noticed the man’s companion. Damn. He could not very well approach Ashby when he was conversing with Worley. Bex did not want his cousin involved. The duke would only demand to know more. He was not a gambler and would not approve of the scheme. More importantly, Bex had declined his aid—dramatically so. He did not want the duke to
know he took it anyway through their mutual connection.

  Bex altered his direction and faced another unwelcome surprise.

  “Father.”

  “Bexley.”

  Though Bex loved Lady Constance as a dear friend, he cursed her in that moment. She had been entirely too thorough in extending invitations. Also relevant was the fact that Bex’s father was a scheming ass—a fact that their hostess well understood yet evidently chose to ignore.

  A satisfied gleam lit the old man’s eyes. “You’ve done well, getting yourself invited here,” Edward said. “Well done.”

  Thank you seemed an inappropriate response when Bex had so many more colorful and satisfying things he could say to his father. He shrugged and let the old man believe what he would.

  Edward leaned in then. “You must work quickly to secure her affections before some other man beats you to it.”

  Bex considered his father with an oddly distant abhorrence. He was, in the end, a shallow, petty, conscienceless man. The realization had come gradually to Bex—too gradually—and he’d followed his father’s lead for too long, to the detriment of himself and others. Now Bex resented even pretending to consider his father’s distasteful schemes.

  Was sleeping in a comfortable bed, shielded from the elements, really worth pandering to this man—allowing him to believe he had won? Was he foolish enough to expect his son to obey even as he had failed in every obligation and duty as a father?

  “Do you know, Father,” Bex said, suddenly feeling the need for clarification between them, “I don’t think you will have to worry about the pace of my courtship.”

  “Mr. Brantwood!”

  The comtesse herself prevented Edward from responding, calling loudly even as she beamed at Bex, her eyes bright with merry mischief. “How long have you been here without seeking me out?” She feigned a pout. “I shall have you punished, ma chere, for neglecting me. What good is a gathering if one cannot gather handsome young gentlemen?”

  Bex’s brow lifted curiously at her enthusiastic greeting.

  She turned to Edward then, her voice and personality having drawn the attention of everyone nearby. “And you must be Mr. Edward Brantwood. I am so happy that you accepted my invitation. I admit I am positively consumed with curiosity about you, sir. One always wants to know a good friend a little better, and how better than to know from whence they come?”

  Understanding dawned. Lady Constance had not chosen to ignore his father’s schemes. They were precisely the reason she’d invited the man. She intended to toy with him. Her effusive declarations of friendship had brought a gleam of victory to Edward Brantwood’s eyes and she saw it. She had put it there, the teasing minx.

  “Lady Constance,” Bex interjected, smiling at the woman because he could not begrudge her the play. “You are too complimentary. You appear entirely taken in by me, and my father will know you for either a liar or a fool.”

  She brought wise blue eyes, shining with laughter, to face him. “Pas du tout, Monsieur Brantwood,” she said with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. “I am never a fool.”

  Bex grinned at her. “But possibly a liar.”

  She winked at him, her secretive smile confirming for all observers the rumors of her scandalous French tendencies. “One must always remain mysterious, ma chere.”

  He gave a slight dip of his chin and tried not to laugh aloud at her antics. “Indeed.” He had noticed her tendency to behave mysteriously always increased when she was among society, as though she were performing for an audience. His father was certainly a rapt audience. He supposed he could allow her the fun, even if his father took temporary pleasure in it.

  With all the expertise of sophisticated flirtation, Lady Constance turned the full brilliance of her handsome visage toward Edward Brantwood. “Do you enjoy the opera, Mr. Brantwood?” she asked, leaving doubt in Bex’s mind whether she intended to convince Edward she was interested in the son or the father.

  It was extremely effective. Edward practically leered back at her.

  Bex knew his father cared absolutely nothing for the opera, but would not want to appear provincial. That had been the entire reason for their relocation to London years earlier, had it not? True to expectations, he responded, “I enjoy all forms of high culture, Lady Constance, and as I’m sure you have seen, I have instilled that same appreciation in my son.”

  Bex nearly snorted at the elder Brantwood’s attempt to play the proud father.

  “Of course you did,” Lady Constance nearly squeaked, so high had her voice risen. She cast Bex an amused glance before returning to his father, all gravity and seriousness. “All parents should be so attentive to the education of their children.”

  “I am beyond fortunate,” Bex said, unable to muster the necessary enthusiasm to validate the statement.

  He was rewarded with a warning glance from his father for his lackluster tone, but the warning was quickly replaced with a simpering smile for the comtesse. “I have paid considerable attention to Bexley’s education, my lady. I have complete trust in his ability to manage all our family’s affairs.”

  It was a lie. The only affairs left for their family included avoiding bill collectors and begging for charity. It amused Bex to know Lady Constance could recognize the lie as well. She already knew precisely how Edward expected Bex to “manage” the family’s financial affairs.

  Still she smiled at Bex with a twinkle in her eye. “Your father confirms my suspicions, Mr. Brantwood, that I am clever to call you my friend.”

  “Too clever by half,” Bex told her, sending her a warning that she had played enough.

  “C’est ridicule,” she said, slicing one dainty hand through the air. “One can never be too clever.” With one more brilliant smile for both men, she gathered her skirt in one hand. “Now, I must not neglect my other guests. Do enjoy the performance.” She directed the words to both gentlemen, but a light touch on Bex’s arm as she spoke gave him the distinct impression she meant the message for him.

  She was far too clever, and observed too much.

  “You have made more progress than I realized,” Edward Brantwood said in a low tone, stepping closer. Others might not have heard his words, but anyone who observed his calculating smirk could have guessed there was naught but mischief in his message.

  Bex did not bother to respond. He could find humor in entertaining the comtesse, but not in further encouraging his father. He scanned the room again. Ashby was standing alone with his wife in the far corner, and he could not squander the opportunity. “Enjoy the evening, Father,” he said, and walked away with no more than a curt nod.

  Bex crossed the room with purposeful strides and considered for the thousandth time exactly what to say to Ashby when he reached him. The ironworks in Birmingham had the best prospects of any investment he’d yet seen, but he could not benefit from that success without funds to participate. His patience for living in his father’s company and under the duke’s charity was wearing thin. He needed a winning hand soon; otherwise, he would be forced to consider more drastic alternatives. Sadly, he hadn’t even devised more drastic alternatives.

  Bex was direct in his path toward his quarry, but did not hurry, as he did not wish to appear desperate or overeager. He eyed others nearby as he went, ready to prevent some other distraction from reaching Ashby before he could.

  The distraction came from behind him. Damn.

  “My lords and ladies,” Lady Constance called. She clapped her hands loudly to secure their collective attention. “My lords and ladies,” she repeated. “Thank you, thank you. Do come and sit and we shall begin our performance.”

  Damn and damn. Ashby and his wife were inching toward the rows of chairs with everyone else in the room. Trying to reach him now would be impossible. Damn his father for even being there.

  Bex delayed joining the shifting crowd, allowing most of
the chairs to fill before he moved to do the same. In a stroke of good fortune, Ashby did not sit with his wife, but selected a seat in the back row, as though to slip away unnoticed during the performance. If he did so, Bex could intercept him. He chose a seat nearby.

  “My dear friends,” Lady Constance said, addressing the group from the front of the room where she stood in a space cleared of furniture save an ornately carved pianoforte. “I am so thrilled for us all that we shall enjoy this special pleasure, a private performance by the brilliantly talented Madame Castellini.”

  The group returned her announcement with restrained applause.

  “This evening,” she continued, beaming under the undivided attention of her guests, “musical accompaniment for Madame Castellini shall be provided by my dear friend, the lovely and gifted Miss Lucy Betancourt.”

  More polite applause sounded from the group, but Bex paid it no attention. The announcement of Lucy’s name had him craning to see if she had yet appeared. He had known she would be there and still her name had sent a spike of heightened awareness through him.

  Madame Castellini swept into view, tall and dark and bold. With olive skin, hair nearly ebony, and rich, dark eyes, she cut a striking picture in a deep burgundy gown. She immediately held the audience captive—all except Bex. His attention was caught by the diminutive figure who had quietly—almost surreptitiously—entered the room and stood waiting in the background.

  She was as pale as Madame Castellini was dark. Next to the singer’s rich, sultry beauty, Lucy was light incarnate. Her gown the softest pink, or perhaps peach, it was still not as light as her alabaster skin or her halo of silver-blond hair. She gave the impression of delicate, untouchable porcelain. If Madame Castellini was a dark mystery, Lucy was a dream—a heavenly, fragile dream to be coveted from a distance.

  Only, she had offered to remove that distance—to allow herself to be touched by him.

  And he had declined.

  She curtsied to the assembled lords and ladies when Lady Constance introduced her again. She did not look directly at the audience. She was nervous. He willed her to look his way so that he could reassure her—send her some sort of signal that might relax her—but she did not. She took her seat at the pianoforte. It was the largest he had ever seen and she looked very small seated there, in front of the grand instrument, in front of the grand assemblage of aristocracy.