An Irresistible Alliance

by Stephanie Laurens

  Especially if he had a non-business—and obviously non-mission—motive for spending more time in her company.

  Jilly drew the figured silk gown from the wardrobe, shook out the skirts, and held it up for Cleo’s approval.

  She nodded. “Yes—that’s the one for tonight.” To appease Jilly, she added, “I need to hit just the right note.”

  After Jilly, still disapproving, helped her into the gown and did up the dozens of small jet buttons holding the gown closed at the back and also down the outside of the tightly fitting sleeves, Cleo carefully sat on the stool before her dressing table and watched as Jilly took down her by-then rather straggly topknot, brushed out the heavy fall of her hair, then proceeded to refashion it into a much tighter, sleeker knot, once again anchored on the top of her head.

  She spared a thought for her constant wish that she could risk a bun further back on her head, or even the looser coiffures that were currently all the rage, but her hair was heavy and silky and inevitably slipped from all such moorings and ended in an unacceptable mess. A topknot balanced properly and anchored well was more or less the only safe hairstyle for her.

  A glance at the clock on her mantelpiece told her it was almost half past six. Michael had brought her home in his carriage and, as the distance between Clarges Street and the Cranmer town house wasn’t great, had said he would call for her at a quarter to seven.

  The thought of him brought to mind her earlier cogitations regarding his motives. It had occurred to her that his secondary, non-business motive might have been to keep her away from Morgan’s Lane; when he’d first arrived at the house that morning, she’d certainly suspected his primary intent had been to ensure she didn’t climb into a hackney and go into Southwark to assure herself that no action involving the barrels had taken place. But if keeping her away from Morgan’s Lane had been his aim, he hadn’t needed to accompany her to the afternoon tea to achieve it. Once he’d heard of her destination, he could simply have dropped her off in South Audley Street and gone elsewhere to amuse himself—but he hadn’t.

  Of course, he’d been interested in meeting Geoffrey with a view to learning more about the import-export business, but as Maude had said, it was passing strange for a gentleman of Lord Michael Cynster’s ilk to have volunteered to endure a family afternoon tea if that had been his only goal.

  While Jilly fluffed out a few locks, teasing them into hanging in corkscrew curls on either side of her face, Cleo stared at her reflection, then pressed a hand to her midriff—as if she could thus calm the rising flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

  It was so silly, really. She, who never bothered about what she looked like, was fretting over her dress, over her hairstyle, over what shawl and reticule she should carry.

  When Jilly stepped back with a “There you are, miss! Quite a picture, if I do say so myself,” Cleo barely glanced at her maid’s latest effort; she was too busy debating what jewelry to wear.

  “My pearl bobs and the long strand of pearls, I think.”

  Jilly nodded in approval and hunted in her jewelry case.

  While she donned the earrings Jilly handed her, Cleo thought again of that kiss. Thought of the morning, of all they’d shared over lunch, thought of that afternoon and of her less-than-settled state—and of what the evening might bring.

  The butterflies fluttered more furiously.

  She wasn’t sure the reaction attested to anything about him or his motives, but she was increasingly concerned as to what that reaction said about her and hers.

  * * *

  Cleo walked into Geoffrey and Maude’s drawing room on Michael’s arm. This was not her milieu, but it was, most definitely, his, and his ineffable confidence, his social ease as he guided her to greet Geoffrey and Maude by the fireplace, in some strange but wonderful fashion seemed to infect her.

  The way his face had lit when he’d seen her on the stairs in Clarges Street as she’d walked down to meet him hadn’t hurt, either. His patently genuine reaction had confirmed beyond question that her decision to opt for the green silk gown had been the right one.

  Buoyed and fortified by his nearness, by his relaxed assurance, she smiled and greeted the Hepworths as Maude introduced them.

  On hearing Michael’s title, Mrs. Hepworth’s eyes grew round. “Lord Michael? Doesn’t that mean…?”

  “Lord Michael is the second son of the Duke of St. Ives,” Cleo explained.

  “Well!” Miss Andrea Hepworth exclaimed. “Fancy that! A real duke’s son.” Miss Hepworth eyed Michael measuringly.

  To Cleo’s amusement, Michael edged fractionally closer to her.

  “I say—is it true,” Robert Hepworth, the Hepworths’ son, asked, “that all gentlemen like you—the aristocrats—are members of White’s Club?”

  Michael smiled. “Our fathers—who are all members—tend to propose us as members when we come on the town.”

  “That’s when young gentlemen are around twenty or so—after they come down from, meaning graduate from, university,” Cleo explained.

  Michael’s swift smile warmed her. “Indeed.” He returned his attention to the younger Hepworth. “So generally, we’re all proposed and accepted into White’s, so yes, most of us are members. However, for our generation, other clubs are more likely to enjoy our regular patronage.”

  “Which other clubs?” Robert inquired.

  “Boodle’s, Brooks, although both are rather tame.” Michael went on, “The current favorite is Arthur’s in St. James Street.”

  “Never you mind,” Mrs. Hepworth told her son. “We’re not here for you to go gallivanting about.”

  What Robert might have said to that, they were destined never to learn, as Geoffrey, who had been talking with Mr. Hepworth, turned and asked Cleo, “My dear, Mr. Hepworth is seeking to acquire good quality hardwood—the sort for furniture makers. Where in London would you suggest he look—or is there some other port that might be preferable?”

  Cleo promptly replied, “The vast bulk of furniture-grade timber comes into the Pool of London. Most is placed in warehouses in the East End.” She smiled at Mr. Hepworth. “I don’t carry the list in my head, but I’d be happy to have our office send you the names and addresses of the better suppliers.”

  Mr. Hepworth blinked. “Your office?”

  Still riding on the wave of Michael-bolstered confidence, Cleo had no trouble keeping her smile in place. “Yes. My family owns and operates the Hendon Shipping Company. You might have heard of us.”

  Mr. Hepworth’s eyes widened. “Why, indeed, I have. I believe I met one of your brothers recently—in New York.”

  She nodded. “Jarred. All three of my brothers are currently on the other side of the Atlantic, pursuing various deals. That’s what they do. Meanwhile, I remain in London and manage the firm.” Before they could ask, she added, “My parents are at our estate in Norfolk—in the country. They prefer the country to town.”

  Mrs. Hepworth glanced at her daughter, then said, “But when your brothers come home, I take it they will resume control and you will retire from the office?”

  Cleo laughed; so did Maude and Geoffrey. Even Michael smiled at the absurdity of that suggestion.

  “Oh no,” Cleo assured Mrs. Hepworth. “Running the company—managing its affairs—is my agreed role, and none of my brothers has the requisite skills to juggle all the details involved.”

  Mrs. Hepworth’s confusion was writ large on her face. “I’d rather thought…” She glanced at Michael, then looked back at Cleo. “We’d assumed that young ladies of the ton were forbidden to…well, work in any capacity. To be involved in trade.”

  Michael inclined his head in acknowledgment. “In our parents’ day, that was true for young ladies and all the aristocracy, male and female alike. However, these days, there’s a distinction drawn between managing an asset and working as such, or being involved in a trade. Managing investments and business is entirely acceptable, but actually working with one’s hands or drawing a salary
remains beyond the pale.”

  He glanced at Cleo and smiled. “For example, as I was explaining to Miss Hendon earlier today, every one of the males in my family is expected to choose some business to invest in.” He nodded at Mr. Hepworth. “Which is what’s behind my interest in the import-export business. My brother, who will inherit the title, has to learn to manage the estate—that’s his role—while I’m expected to find a similar role investing in some other sphere. Most of the younger aristocracy these days have some role in investment or business, or are actively engaged in managing some asset. That’s not only acceptable now but also financially desirable, of course. And in some instances, those roles in business management are, indeed, being claimed by our young ladies—as is the case with Miss Hendon.”

  All four Hepworths had been listening avidly. Michael smiled easily. “Times have changed, and the English aristocracy have a very long history of successful adaptation.”

  Mr. Hepworth exchanged a glance with his wife. “Well! I have to say that’s an immensely enlightening piece of news.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Hepworth turned to Maude and asked about Almack’s and whether there was any chance of visiting while they were in town.

  Miss Hepworth tugged Cleo’s sleeve, and when Cleo glanced her way, asked, “Was there anything special you had to learn to take charge of your family’s business?”

  Cleo arched her brows. “Arithmetic. And a sound understanding of geography helps, but…why do you ask?”

  Miss Hepworth looked at Robert, who volunteered, “I’m dreadful at sums, and anything to do with finance goes straight over my head. Of course, Papa wants me to take over after him, but I’d much rather do what it sounds like your brothers do—travel and meet people and negotiate business. I’m good at that.”

  “And I’m good at sums and finance,” his sister put in. “And I don’t mind staying home in Philadelphia.” She glanced at her parents, who had drawn a little away and were talking to Geoffrey and Maude. “But until now, Mama—and Papa, too, but mainly Mama—wouldn’t hear of me even helping out at the office, much less learning how Papa manages things.”

  Miss Hepworth’s eyes lit, and she beamed at Cleo and Michael. “I can’t tell you how helpful and encouraging learning of your roles—both of your roles and all you’ve described—has been. Now…” She glanced at her brother.

  Robert Hepworth nodded decisively. “Now, we’ll go to work on them. Clearly, if it’s socially acceptable for both of you to engage in managing investments or a business, then it’s time Philadelphia society adapted, too.” Robert grinned. “I can just imagine using that notion as a lever. If the English can see the sense, then…”

  Michael chuckled. “I haven’t yet visited America, but from all I’ve gathered, that should go a long way toward winning your point.”

  The butler appeared at that moment to announce that dinner was served.

  Geoffrey offered Mrs. Hepworth his arm, and Maude accepted Mr. Hepworth’s, and in congenial vein, Cleo and Michael followed behind with Miss Hepworth—“Please, call me Andrea”—and Robert.

  The rest of the evening was largely spent in a broader and more varied discussion of business interests than Michael could possibly have hoped for. Andrea and Robert were as eager as he to elicit their father’s and Geoffrey’s insights, and although he suspected Cleo already knew much of what was discussed, she nevertheless drank in every word and was frequently instrumental in steering the conversation in new and revealing directions. Between the four of them, they questioned and interrogated the older men as course followed course.

  Later, when they were once more in the drawing room and the teacups were handed around, while Mrs. Hepworth and Maude sat and chatted about social matters, the rest of the company congregated before the hearth and continued their exploration of the current state of the import-export trade and touched on various possibilities for the future. It was plain that all six of them—Geoffrey, Mr. Hepworth, Robert, Andrea, Cleo, and Michael—were enjoying themselves to an extent and in a way none of them had anticipated when they’d first walked into the room.

  When it finally came time to call an end to the evening, Mr. Hepworth looked at his children and, without any prompting, humphed and said, “Well, you two—when we get back to Philly, we’ll see.”

  Robert beamed. Andrea looked as if she’d just been handed her dearest wish on a platter.

  With sincere thanks all around, the Hepworths took their leave. Michael, with Cleo beside him, walked into the front hall with Geoffrey and Maude to see the Americans on their way.

  With his coat on and his hat on his head, Mr. Hepworth turned to Michael. “If you’re ever in Philadelphia, my lord, please do call on us. I’d be happy to introduce you”—Hepworth paused to raise his hat to Cleo and smile benignly—“both of you to the gentlemen of my circle.”

  Michael grasped and shook Hepworth’s proffered hand.

  Then the older man took Cleo’s hand and bowed surprisingly elegantly. “A pleasure, my dear. I’ve learned a lot tonight—and not all of it about import-export.”

  Cleo laughed. “Indeed, sir.” She glanced at his family. “I believe we’ve all taught each other quite a lot.”

  After the Cranmer carriage had rumbled off, ferrying the Hepworths to their hotel, Michael and Cleo took their leave. His thank-yous to Geoffrey and Maude were heartfelt. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in an age.”

  Geoffrey clapped him on the back. “The pleasure, my lord, was ours.” Geoffrey met Michael’s eyes. “I believe I’m correct in stating that we all benefited in unexpected ways this evening.”

  Michael held Geoffrey’s faintly challenging gaze, then wryly smiled, inclined his head, and followed Cleo, now wrapped in her cloak, out of the door and down the steps.

  * * *

  Clarges Street wasn’t far; Cleo had opted to walk home, and after they’d arrived in South Audley Street, Michael had sent Tom and the carriage back to Grosvenor Square.

  Now, beneath a cloud-screened sky, they ambled along well-lit streets, through soft shadows and into successive cones of light cast by the streetlamps. By Mayfair hours, it was relatively early. Carriages rattled past, and there were others, like them, taking advantage of the clement weather to stretch their legs.

  “That was”—Cleo raised her head—“a surprisingly pleasant evening. I hadn’t expected the Americans to be such good company—to be so open-minded. Or for them to have such…parallel interests.”

  Michael smiled and paced beside her. “Learning of your role with Hendon Shipping seems to have galvanized Andrea and Robert into pushing for and seizing the sort of life each of them wants. And Mr. Hepworth seemed ready to recalibrate his expectations.”

  Cleo flashed him a grin. “Mrs. Hepworth wasn’t so pleased, but I suspect she’ll come about.” She looked ahead. “If I ever visit America, I’ll be interested in learning how they’ve all managed.”

  You could travel there with me. Michael didn’t utter the words, but the thought more than appealed. “I wouldn’t mind observing that myself—in a few years, once they’ve had time to settle into their new roles.”

  “Hmm.”

  They paced on; although they continued to exchange comments on various business matters—something he couldn’t imagine discussing with any other lady—with every yard they walked from South Audley Street, the pleasant ambiance of the evening receded, and eventually, the mission resurfaced, reclaiming their minds.

  After several seconds of silence, Cleo glanced his way. “If anything had happened in Morgan’s Lane, would your men have come to find you?”

  He nodded. “Tom knew where I was, and I gave orders to be informed immediately.” He met her gaze. “So we can conclude that the evening has passed quietly in Morgan’s Lane, and the barrels are still in one of the three warehouses.”

  “Will you—or rather your men—continue to keep watch?”

  He looked ahead. They were walking along Curzon Street; the corner of Hal
f Moon Street lay to their right. The intersection with Clarges Street wasn’t far away, and the Hendon town house was only a few doors from the corner. “Yes, we’ll continue our watch. But as I mentioned before, my men reported that the entire area has been very quiet all day.” He’d filled her in on the lack of activity during the drive to the Cranmers’ house. “And given it’s already past eleven o’clock and it is Sunday night, I think it’s unlikely any attempt to move the barrels will be made before tomorrow morning.”

  “Assuming that the barrels are, indeed, still in Morgan’s Lane.”

  He nodded. “Assuming that.”

  When they reached the pavement before the Hendon house, they halted and faced each other.

  Cleo looked into Michael’s face. Despite all her questions regarding him and her, as her eyes met his, the dominant feeling that assailed her was, put simply, connection. Something far deeper, broader, and more solid than mere attraction, although that remained, steady and strong. They’d both avoided mentioning the kiss—that stunningly revealing kiss they’d shared twenty-four hours before. Throughout the day, they’d both held back—reined in—the resulting reactions, but now, as they stood a foot apart on the pavement in Clarges Street, reaction surged, pushed free of all restraint, and bloomed.

  Between them, that ineluctable connection snapped taut.

  She managed to find her voice. “Thank you for escorting me home.”

  As if I could have done anything else. Michael looked at her and scrambled to find his usual debonair façade. He tipped his head and, his eyes still locked with hers, attempted a rakish smile. “The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.”

  Her lips curved at the glib words; she thought them superficial, insubstantial—just polite verbiage. He was conscious of a sudden urge to assure her—vehemently—that the sentiment was entirely sincere. Then to taste that smile, to cover her lips with his and sip…

  He was drowning in her green-and-gold eyes. He felt a tug—from his heart to hers.