by Tracy Kay
“Are you sure?” Brandon asked, not wanting the man to be out and a bit relieved he had a good humor about the situation. If Charles wasn’t such a good-natured man, things could have turned unpleasant.
Charles laughed. “I am a wealthy man, Brandon. I can afford the loss. Let her keep it.” He noticed the brandy on the sideboard and gestured toward it. “Care if I have a drink?”
“Help yourself.” Brandon nodded to the sideboard.
“You really aren’t related to her?” Charles mused.
“Not a bit,” Brandon replied wryly.
“But you took her on.” Charles was impressed with his generosity and tolerance.
“My sister is partial to her,” Brandon stated, accepting the drink Charles had poured for him.
Charles nodded, feeling at a loss. Changing the subject, he asked, “You have interest in the Ravenleigh Shipping Line, do you not?”
“Yes, I do,” Brandon nodded, wondering where his inquiry was leading.
“Any truth to the rumors?” Charles queried curiously. Being a merchant and a shrewd business man, he was always open to gaining new associates, and perhaps, he could make something good out of his being duped by Joselyn.
“You mean that the company is run by women or that the goods are stolen?” Brandon countered.
“Both.” Charles was genuinely interested in his response.
“The Countess of Ravenleigh does play a major role in the business,” Brandon stated honestly. “She is one of the primary investors and she wants the business to be successful. Although unconventional, she manages the warehouse, the merchandise and dispatches the ships. Maxine Stewart handles the books and Chameleon manages the employees and supplies. Additionally, the ladies sail with their own ships when time permits. The women are very good at what they do.”
“And the male partners?”
Brandon smiled. “We are there when we need to be and when the women need assistance. Trust me, Charles, I make sure everything is run smoothly. If the other male partners and I thought the ladies couldn’t handle things, we would step in,” Brandon explained reassuringly. He knew that Charles was a very successful merchant in England and he would be an asset if he became one of their buyers.
“And the rumors of stolen goods?” Charles questioned. He doubted the rumors were valid, but it was smart business to be cautious.
“Untrue,” Brandon stated bluntly. “We run a legitimate business, Charles. The Countess would never steal from another. It is not her nature. And neither would the rest of us,” he added.
Charles smirked. “I should have known better than to believe the swill Brumley was serving.”
“Yes, Aaron Farrington,” Brandon sighed. “He has been a bit of a thorn in our side recently.”
“I will put the word out that the rumors are lies, Brandon.” Charles decided he liked Brandon Cathcart and his honesty. It would be good business to work with a man like him. Integrity and honesty was hard to come by these days, and he justifiably hated working with some of the scum that the wharfs served up. “It is bad business for all of us when someone tries to destroy one of the suppliers,” he added.
“Tell me about it,” Brandon grimaced. “We have merchandise sitting in the warehouse and in dock waiting to be purchased. The Countess is worried it won’t sell.”
“Have her come round my office tomorrow or the day after, and maybe we can work something out. I owe you for telling me the truth.”
“I will do that.” Brandon nodded, pleased at the outcome of their meeting. “She will be relieved that someone doesn’t believe in Farrington’s lies.”
“Farrington is an ass, lord or not. And frankly, I have no problem working with women. My mother is a hard worker and smart as a whip.” He chuckled, thinking of his feisty mother. “If she heard that I wouldn’t do business with someone because she was female, she would beat the snot out of me.”
Brandon laughed. “That is my kind of woman.”
Charles laughed with him, threw back the rest of his drink, and stood up. “Thank you for what you are doing for Lady Joselyn and give her my best. Tell her I don’t hate her, but she needs to stop using others. There is a better way.”
“I will tell her, Charles,” Brandon affirmed, walking the man to the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raven rapped loudly on the door of a sprawling, secluded, gated, eighteenth century mansion located on several acres of land, which included a large circular driveway, stables, livery yard, carriage house, and beautiful gardens. It was a private paradise in the midst of the newer homes of the more affluent residents of London. Raven knocked again on the double white doors, which were opened before he could lower his hand. A young man stopped short of walking into him.
“Oh, I say, terribly sorry old chap. Didn’t hear you knock,” apologized Anthony Malany, a tall youth with black hair and gray eyes.
“Quite all right,” Raven answered the young man. He vaguely recognized him as one of Gretchen’s many brothers. “Is Lady Gretchen in?”
“She is in her studio, third floor, last door on your right,” he waved towards the stairs in the large, opulent foyer as he let Raven into the house. “I would show you the way, but I am in a bit of a rush. Good day.”
Raven watched the young man rush out to the approaching carriage, not waiting for it to stop before vaulting inside. Raven shook his head in disgust at the young man’s manners. The boy should not have allowed a man unknown to him into his home unannounced. Raven surveyed the room briefly and frowned. The butler was nowhere to be seen and there were no footmen present either. Good thing he was not up to something despicable. Following the young man’s directions, Raven quickly mounted the two flights of stairs and knocked on the door before entering. Raven caught his breath at the sight before him.
Gretchen was standing in the middle of a brightly lit room littered with canvases and paints. The morning light illuminated her, catching gold and red highlights in her auburn hair. She was wearing an old, tattered dress, which was too short and a little too tight, showing just how curvy a small woman could be. As she turned around to face him, Raven grinned. She was covered in paint. It was splattered on her dress and the paintbrush she held dripped paint onto her hand and down her arm. On her cheek was a smudge of red, and white paint was smeared on her brow. She even had flecks of blue in her hair.
At his grin, Gretchen gasped. She allowed no one to see her like this, no one. Flustered at the handsome and imposing man’s presence in her private sanctuary, she blushed and stumbled over her words. “Oh, Raven . . . sir, what . . . what are you doing here?”
Raven moved towards her, picking up an old rag carelessly thrown on a rickety table with one missing leg. “I said I would come by this morning, Lady Gretchen,” Raven replied as he tilted her chin up with one hand and gently wiped the paint off her face. “Did you sleep well?”
Gretchen stared at him for a long moment before remembering herself and answered. “Yes, yes, I did, thank you.”
Raven smiled, released her chin, tossed the rag back on the table, and stated the obvious to put her at ease. “You are an oil painter.”
“I . . . well, I dabble. I am not very good.” Gretchen felt disconcerted by his presence in her studio. She wondered why no one had announced him, giving her time to clean up and dress more appropriately. She hadn’t expected him so early and she was mortified at being caught indulging in her favorite activity.
“May I see?” He waved his hand at the painting in progress, ignoring her obvious discomfort.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t often show my work,” she stammered. “But if you wish.” Gretchen nervously set her brush into the glass containing a cleaning mixture of linseed oil and turpentine and picked up a cloth to clean off her hands. Unlike most women who take up the popular activity of painting with water colors, Gretchen preferred using oils for her paintings. She could paint a pretty picture with water colors, and frequently did, but the bold colors of oils were muc
h more to her liking.
“Please.” Raven stepped around her to view the painting on the easel.
“It is not finished,” she remarked self-consciously.
“I know that,” he reassured, cocking his head slightly to the left as he took in the mystical scene she had created of the mythical beast Pegasus in a backdrop of blues and purples. “It is beautiful.”
“It is merely fancy. As I said, it is not very good.” Gretchen crossed her arms over her chest, embarrassed he was seeing her in her paint clothes. She knew she looked a mess.
“I like it. May I see your others?” He indicated the many paintings that scattered the room. He smiled at her, amused by her distress.
“Be my guest,” Gretchen responded uncertainly, fluttering her hand to the various paintings. She watched him as he went through her many paintings. She had never shown anyone her paintings other than her brothers and her closest friends. Over the years her brothers had come to accept her hobby, and in fact, they were grateful for it. Painting was a great outlet for her pent-up emotions which she had difficulty controlling. When she was painting, there was nothing else, no worries, no insecurities, no emotions but what evolved on the canvas. Most of her paintings were mythical and whimsical scenes, some light, some dark. She liked depicting the Greek Gods and the mythical creatures she had read about as a child. She did landscapes and portraits of her family and friends also, but she liked using her imagination, letting her brush go where it pleased rather than trying to imitate real life.
“I like this one.” Raven moved aside so she could see the painting of two men sword fighting on a cliff with the ocean’s fury pounding on the rocks below. The sky, gathering for a storm, was done in varying dark hues of blues and reds.
“You do?” Gretchen was surprised at his choice. She had finished the painting less than a month ago, and it was one several of her brothers had laughed at, saying it was too dramatic. She had felt it was one of her better pieces and had been so proud of it, but she had put it away with the rest of her discarded paintings, rejecting her initial wish to hang it on her bedroom wall.
“Yes, I do. It captures the feelings a man has when he is in battle: anger, fear, hope. It is all there.” Raven stared at the painting, intrigued by its intricacies and details.
“Then it is yours,” Gretchen offered impulsively.
Startled, he returned his full attention back to her. “I couldn’t possibly.” Raven was surprised she would give him such a gift. “You must have worked very hard on this. You should display it.”
“Please, take it, Raven. I want you to have it.” Gretchen felt excited at the idea he actually wanted her painting, until it occurred to her that he was only being polite. “Unless you were only being kind in saying you liked it. I don’t want to force you to take something you don’t want.”
Raven smiled at her again before gazing back at the painting. “Oh, I want it. I want it very much.” He really did like the striking picture and was very pleased that Gretchen was giving it to him.
Gretchen returned his smile. “I am glad. I will have it framed and sent to your townhouse.” After a long moment passed, she asked shyly, “How is Madeline?”
Raven took his eyes off the painting to observe her reaction to his news. “She is still unconscious.”
“Oh, no.” Gretchen turned from him, not wanting him to see the tears that gathered in her eyes.
Placing his hands on her shoulders, Raven gently turned her to face him. “She will be fine, Gretchen. According to Cat, she may sleep for a week or more. It is her body’s way of healing.” He wiped away the stray tear that rolled down her cheek.
“Cat?” She asked, not knowing who that was.
“I am sorry, luv, some of Brandon’s friends call him Cat.” Raven was pleased the conversation shifted to something besides Madeline. He sensed that there was something deeply troubling Gretchen, and he didn’t feel that she needed the additional anxiety of Madeline’s condition. He was concerned for Gretchen, but it was going to take some time before she was ready to trust him enough to confide in him.
“Strange name,” she remarked, vaguely remembering Madeline mentioning the unusual name.
“No stranger than mine.” Raven tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Is your name a nickname also?” She was curious, wanting to know more about him, and glad to have something else to think about besides Madeline’s condition, or the confusing feelings Raven inspired in her.
“No. It is the only name I have,” he answered as he began stroking her cheek with one long finger.
“Only Raven?” Gretchen wondered at the strange tension she felt in her belly, making her nervous and edgy.
“Yes. You see I was placed in an orphanage when I was very young and the only part of my name I remember is Raven, nothing more.” Raven was baffled at his need to tell her about his life. He never felt the need to explain before, but somehow, he knew it was important to tell her, and it would build trust between them. Gretchen had been special to him ever since that fateful day in Philadelphia when he punished her for her disobedience. His protective instincts for her had been fierce that day and had only grown fiercer in recent days.
“Is it difficult not knowing your family?” She questioned timidly. Gretchen’s curiosity was getting the best of her. She truly ought to stop asking him such personal questions, but she wanted to know, and for some reason, she didn’t want his visit to end.
“It used to be, but a nice family, the Morgans, took me in when I was young and raised me. I consider them my family,” he replied patiently.
“You have a wife, children?” She was fairly certain Madeline hadn’t mentioned he had a wife and children, but her curiosity and her desire to know him better, made her bold enough to ask the forward question.
Raven smiled and brushed a stray hair off her brow. “No, luv, the Morgans and my friends are my family, Conrad Morgan and Brandon to name a few.”
“It is good to have friends,” Gretchen asserted, saddened that Raven didn’t know his real family. How difficult that must be for him, she thought. For some unknown reason, she felt a great need to include this man into her life. It wasn’t pity she felt, but something much deeper, a yearning to know everything about him. She wanted to know what he liked, what he didn’t like, what made him laugh, and what made him sad. She enjoyed spending time with him and she was beginning to trust him like no one else.
“Yes, it is.” He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger so her silver-gray eyes met his gaze. “I think you and I could be good friends. Would you like that?”
Gretchen nodded. “Yes, I would.”
Letting go of her, Raven changed the subject. “Does painting help you with your temper, Gretchen?”
Gretchen ruffled her brow and walked towards the large window that made the room so sunny and perfect for painting. “Sometimes.” She stared outside, looking at the breathtaking garden below before turning to meet his eyes. “I started painting when I was a little girl. My father had ordered a family portrait done and I was more interested in what the artist was doing than sitting for him. He taught me about paints and different techniques, and since then, I spend most of my free time painting or drawing.” She smiled wryly. “A silly hobby for a lady, I know, but it occupies my mind.”
“It is not silly, luv. It is a good way to focus your energy.” He walked to her, standing close and took her hand gently in his before commanding lightly, “Tell me about your anger, Gretchen.” Raven thought if he could find the source of her anger, he could help her overcome it or control it. He could easily bend her will to his. He could use his ability to read her memories and force her to confide in him, but he didn’t wish to invade her privacy unless he had no choice. Raven wanted her to share herself willingly with him and to know she could trust him. He had an undeniable need to help and protect her. He was not going to fight this need, despite his surprise of it. He knew from experience that it was best to follow his intuit
ion and let it lead him where it will.
Gretchen looked down at her small hand in his large one. She felt so safe and comfortable with him. She was surprised that she wanted to share with him feelings she wouldn’t share with anyone else. Other than her brothers, Madeline, and Corinna, Gretchen was not comfortable around people and preferred to keep to herself. She slowly lifted her eyes up to meet his. “I get angry and I can’t control it. I always end up breaking something. It frightens me sometimes.” She was not willing to admit to herself or to him the strange things that happen when she became angry. She didn’t understand why things shattered and cold fireplaces blazed to life when she became emotional. Quite frankly, it all scared the living daylights out of her.
“Do you know why you get so angry?” Raven inquired, lightly rubbing his thumb back and forth across her wrist.
“No,” Gretchen replied breathlessly, glancing back down at their joined hands. “I only know I rather get angry than cry.”
“Will you do something for me?” Raven asked softly, not wanting her to shy away from him.
“What?” She questioned cautiously, not sure what to expect.
“When you get angry, think about why you are angry and paint that anger. Perhaps understanding it will help you control it.” Raven turned her hand over and began stroking her palm with small circles, causing little flutters in her belly. He smiled perceptively when he heard her change in breathing. If he wasn’t careful, he could easily become taken by her, and he would so enjoy seducing her. This little slip of a girl had no idea the power she had over him, he thought wryly.
“I suppose I could try,” she admitted, her soft, gray eyes connecting with his bottomless, dark blue ones. She swallowed hard, fighting the tingling feelings that sparked within her from his seductive gaze and his soft caresses on her hand.