“Of course I know where we’re going,” Stephen replied, startling her. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing their setup. It’ll be interesting to see how efficiently they are running operations, whether cost savings can be made, if increasing or decreasing the scale would make any true fiscal impact.”
“Decreasing scale? Fiscal impact? Oh, my lord, your sweet talk makes me feel all shivery inside.”
“Mock all you like, but it’s just as well I’m well versed in this particular language. If you give a banker an inch they’ll take five miles. Besides, if I was dirt poor and running my estates into the ground, how on earth would your cake addiction be funded?”
Caroline grinned. “I’d put you to work on the streets. A chicken coop strength tester perhaps?”
“Really? You think that is my best non-mathematical skill?”
“Hmmm,” she said, leaning back on the thickly padded leather squab, pretending to give the matter deep thought, absolutely refusing to admit his total proficiency in bed. “You are quite good at waltzing and do fill out a pair of trousers admirably well.”
“Admirably well?”
“At a stretch. I suggest a dancing master.”
“And have legions of mentally unstable elephants blather about the weather and maul my feet in preparation for Almack’s? No thank you.”
“Pity chimney sweep has already been ruled out. I believe we could also cross horse jockey from the list.”
“True. I know, a brandy taster. Paid to drink. What could be better than that?”
“You’d be sick of it in a week,” she scoffed.
He clasped his hands together. “A vicar? Delivering booming sermons every Sunday while benevolently overseeing the welfare of my flock’s immortal souls?”
“Please. We are trying to think of professions with at least a hint of plausibility.”
Stephen gave her a mock-injured look. “What’s not plausible about me as a pious man of the cloth?”
“Apart from everything? Why, nothing at all.”
“Ha. Well, Lady Perfect, what would you do? Considering you can’t sew a stitch. Or take instructions. Or coordinate your limbs.”
“All those skills are vastly overrated. I would tread the boards, be feted as the next Sarah Siddons,” she said loftily.
“Tour the countryside?”
“Good gracious no. Open with Edmund Kean at Drury Lane.”
“Pardon me, I’m sure. But I’m not certain he’d appreciate a leading lady twice his height. Or being stomped on when he made an excellent joke.”
“If you truly believe your jokes are excellent, there really is no hope for mankind…oh look. It seems we’re here.”
Stephen glanced out the window. “Welcome to Wapping. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to be on your best behavior. No scratch that, an actual lady’s best behavior.”
“You mean like Flora Hartley, er, Lady Shilton?” she asked, with a sweet smile.
He scowled and brushed a piece of lint from his dark brown jacket. “Just get out of the damned carriage. And stay close. All sorts make their living here, some legitimately, some not so much. The East India marine police force is increasing in numbers all the time, but they cannot be everywhere.”
They climbed out of the carriage, the surroundings nearly taking her breath away. Gigantic ships with furled white sails rippling gently in the breeze waited patiently while men scrambled to load and unload them. Wooden docks stretched for miles and miles, and rows of solid brick four-storied warehouses kept a watchful eye over proceedings.
“My goodness, how absolutely lovely!”
“Thank you,” said Stephen, tucking her arm through his. “I do try.”
“Not you, the docks. They look so new.”
“Well they aren’t old. These docks only opened in 1805 or 1806.”
“1805,” announced a deep voice to her right, and she turned to see a very handsome, well-dressed black haired man standing about ten feet from them. “Ninety acres all up, room for three hundred vessels. All in all, a most excellent facility.”
“Kimbolton,” said Stephen, smiling as he propelled them forward and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you. May I present my wife, Caroline.”
“Ah, I thought this fetching creature must be Lady Westleigh. Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am, what a lovely gown you’re wearing,” the baron finished, tightly grasping her gloved hand and sliding his lips over her knuckles.
Every hackle rose at the smooth tone and practiced, over familiar gesture. Not to mention the naked lust that flashed in his cool blue eyes.
It was hate at first sight.
~ * ~
In the blink of an eye Caroline’s body went from soft and fluid to so rigid she could be used to hold up an unfinished building.
Stephen gritted his teeth as his light-hearted mood slipped away and a familiar weight resettled itself back on his shoulders. What the hell was the matter with her? He’d always known she could take a while to warm to strangers, but it wasn’t wary politeness stamped on her expressive face, it was out and out dislike.
“Lord Kimbolton,” she replied stiffly, pointedly yanking her hand from the baron’s grasp.
“So,” Stephen said too heartily, to make up for his wife’s embarrassing lapse. “Will you show us around?”
Kimbolton chuckled. “Of course. Do come this way, we’ll start with my office.”
As they followed the baron into the warehouse Stephen tugged sharply on Caroline’s arm and gave her a warning glare, but she merely smiled. Hell. For some reason, amusing Caroline had transformed into evil Caroline, and short of bundling her into a burlap sack and heaving her back into his carriage there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. But by God, if she crossed the line or did anything to jeopardize this new working relationship, she would be one sorry countess.
“So, Kimbolton,” he said, intrigued by the variety of scents dancing under his nose. Brandy definitely. But something heavier, spicier. Tobacco maybe? “How did you manage to acquire such a prime spot for the group’s shipping interests?”
“Pure luck, actually. The construction of these docks was a private venture by a group of merchants and speculators. M’father, and Wynnie’s for that matter, were both amongst the original directors.”
Stephen nodded, impressed. “Excellent forward thinking there. The old docks are an absolute shambles. I recall a gentleman at one of my clubs saying a ship he’d invested in took nearly two months just to exit the port, it was so overcrowded!”
“Very common. Of course it doesn’t help when crime is rampant, poorly paid men become lazy and easily distracted. We made a decision very early on to offer top wages to our dockhands, transporters and sailors. Not only does it inspire loyalty, but ensures our strict timetables are almost always met. Occasionally the weather might delay a shipment, but never lack of men or skill.”
“A very sound practice. Do something similar myself, always found you get far more out of a well-fed, well-paid employee. But what do you bring in? I can smell brandy, and…tobacco?”
Kimbolton unlocked the door of a large, richly-appointed office and led them inside. Caroline immediately unhooked her arm from his and wandered over to peer out of a wide glass window overlooking the cobbled paths and wooden quay, and further out the expanse of busy waterway that was the Thames.
“You have a good nose, Westleigh. Yes, we import both, along with rice and wine. Can I offer some tea? Ah, Lady Westleigh, admiring my view. Most adequate, is it not?”
“Perfect for keeping an eye on everything, I daresay,” replied Caroline. “Especially those lowlifes who might attempt criminal activities right under your nose.”
“True, but fear not, madam, we are fortunate to have the finest of police forces right in the vicinity. Those who would lie, cheat and commit blatant acts of piracy are swiftly apprehended and dealt with.”
“Very reassuring, Lord Kimbolton. But what about other cr
imes?”
The baron paused and tilted his head. “Other crimes, Lady Westleigh?”
“Yes, such as mur—”
“I’m sure all manner of offences are punished, my dear,” Stephen interrupted, about ready to strangle her. Jam tarts and cream cakes would be henceforth banned from his households, they turned his wife into a prime candidate for Bedlam. Well, more so than usual.
Caroline glanced his way, her eyes spitting jade flames. Thankfully a knock sounded and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne and Sir John Smythe sauntered in, accompanied by a wave of sickly fragrance. Ugh. Christ Almighty, he hated perfume.
“About time you two joined us,” said Kimbolton. “Where is Rochland?”
“You can’t have forgotten already,” drawled Sir John. “Recruitment drive, dear boy.”
“A recruitment drive?” asked Stephen. “For what?”
“The British Army. No one can resist Rock’s speeches about honor, glory, scarlet uniforms that raise skirts like the wind, or the sheer amusement in stacking dead Frenchies three feet high…oh my word. I do beg your pardon, madam, didn’t realize we had a lady present.”
Stephen frowned. Sir John’s words seemed perfectly contrite, yet he’d swear the man knew of Caroline’s presence before even walking in the room. Obviously his first instinct in disliking the obnoxious dandy was correct.
“Gentlemen,” he said evenly. “May I present my wife. My dear, Sir John Smythe and Lord Avery Wynn-Thorne.”
Caroline didn’t budge from her spot. “Delighted,” she murmured through the coolest of smiles.
“Well now,” announced Kimbolton, clapping his hands together when the silence stretched to a full uncomfortable minute. “How about we all proceed down to the ship in dock and take a tour? It will have to be brief I’m afraid, I’d hate to interrupt their preparations. They sail with tonight’s tide to the colonies.”
“Splendid idea, Kimbo,” said Wynn-Thorne. “But first, Westleigh, you remember we told you of Hallmere’s favorite project? How would you and your lovely wife like to meet one of the lucky recipients of his charity?”
Stephen glanced at Caroline, bracing himself for the start of a violent storm. Yet instead his wife beamed at the man, all honey and charm.
“I should like that very much, my lord,” she purred, strolling over to the shorter Wynn-Thorne and curling an arm through his. “I must admit I didn’t know Westleigh’s brother well at all, but his good works sound absolutely fascinating. Perhaps you might show me around personally? The thought of such a big ship and all that deep water is quite, quite alarming.”
“Of course! Of course, Lady Westleigh. It would be my very great pleasure. Come this way.”
Which left him, Kimbolton and Sir John to trot behind like a trio of damned lap dogs. What the hell was Caroline playing at, batting her eyes, swaying her hips and using that low, syrupy voice like she wanted to drag Wynn-Thorne into a closet and yank his trousers off? As for that horseshit about being scared of water, he and George had taught her to swim on their Eton breaks. God knew she’d pestered, cajoled and blackmailed them for lessons until she was as strong in the water as they were.
Stephen flexed his shoulders. Avery Wynn-Thorne. Bradford Shilton. Obviously the days of second son solidarity were long gone.
“Something the matter, dear boy?” asked Sir John, a smirk playing about his lips that made him yearn to remove it with a closed fist.
Stephen smiled. “Not at all. Just thinking about some tiresome appointments I have later in the day.”
“What a relief, I thought for a moment you might be cross with our Wynnie. All the ladies love him, I think it’s that Scottish brogue. He collects perfumed handkerchiefs like some do tin soldiers.”
“How fascinating. Fortunately my wife rarely carries a handkerchief. And she abhors perfume. Told me once it is the mark of someone who needs to bathe more often.”
Kimbolton laughed, much to Sir John’s obvious annoyance. “It’s my personal belief that cleanliness is next to godliness. Lady Westleigh is clearly a woman of refined sensibilities.”
“Oh, indeed,” Stephen replied.
“Scuse me, guvnor!” called a loud, cockney voice, and the entire group came to a halt as a young, fair-haired woman came hurtling down the corridor towards them.
“Clara,” said Kimbolton, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Sir John. “We have talked, have we not, about a lady’s pace? And her speech? What on earth will your new employer think?”
The girl blushed and bobbed an awkward curtsy, her hands bunching in the folds of a simple white day dress. “Excuse me, sir, but Cap’n Jones wants to know how many more trunks are to come for the girls. He says it’s gettin’ red…redick…bloody stupid. Sir.”
Wynn-Thorne rolled his eyes. “Women and their belongings. So much space we could be loading with profitable goods and we’re cramming it with useless junk.”
“My lord!” Caroline whispered sotto voce, as she rapped him playfully on the arm. “A woman’s treasures are sacred! Now, Clara, is that your name, dear?”
“Er, yes ma’am.”
“I want to hear your story. Every little detail about how you came to be rescued by these wonderful gentlemen. They talked about touring the ship, but I must say that terrifies me. How about you and I take tea while they attend to their manly pursuits?”
Clara’s expression turned cornered mouse. “Er, not much to tell. I were, um, a soiled un-for-tu-nate on the streets and now I’m not thanks to Cap’n Jackson and these here foine guvnors, er, gents. I’m lookin’ forward to my new life, that’s the plain truth.”
Caroline tilted her head. “Jackson? I thought you said the captain’s name was Jones?”
Pure panic flared in the girl’s eyes and her face lost all color.
Stephen frowned. What a truly odd reaction.
“Poor thing,” said Sir John, shaking his head. “So overwhelmed by her good fortune and impending journey, she forgot Captain Jones’ name.”
“Didn’t mean it, honest, guv. I mean, sir,” Clara whispered, visibly trembling now. “Please don’t kill me!”
~ * ~
“Darling, you’ve been staring out that window a good twenty minutes now. Am I really that dull?”
Barely managing to halt a scream of surprise, Caroline turned and smiled briefly at her mother. “Of course not, Mama. I just have a…few things on my mind at the moment.”
“Oh? Like what? Come and tell me.”
Sighing, she obediently returned to the flowered chaise in the small parlor Sir Malcolm had deigned to permit her mother to use, and sat down. Where to begin. A marriage with more ups and downs than a ship battling a storm-tossed sea? A houseguest she wanted to dropkick from a high window? A mother in law she missed desperately? The quest for an heir she wanted and yet didn’t want? Her husband’s budding friendship and business partnership with men who genuinely frightened the life out of her?
The dock meeting had played over in her mind so many times it was practically engraved there now. Young Clara and that whole scene, from the abrupt entrance to the speech corrections and careful answers which seemed so damned practiced. Every instinct told her to ask some pointed questions and hadn’t that set the cat amongst the pigeons. But not in the way she’d wanted. Clara’s sudden change in demeanor, that look of absolute dread—she’d seen it enough times in the mirror before answering one of Sir Malcolm’s summonses. And the plea ‘please don’t kill me’ had sounded far too genuine, yet Kimbolton, Sir John and Wynn-Thorne all laughed uproariously at the girl and complimented her on a Siddons-like performance. Clara eventually curtsied, even smiled, but the stark pallor of her skin remained. And once dismissed she’d looked over her shoulder twice, as though to reassure herself they weren’t following her.
During the carriage ride home Caroline had wanted to discuss the morning with Stephen, but his thousand-yard gaze never shifted from the window except to inform her he would drop her at her mother’s for tea and collect her
after his appointments with his law clerk and banker were completed. So now, here she was. Unsettled as hell and forced to smile and make small talk when all the while she wanted to fly to her husband and blurt out every worry currently sitting boulder-like on her shoulders.
“Caroline? Hello!”
“I’m sorry, Mama. You were saying?”
Emily gave her a perplexed look over the rim of her teacup. “No dear, you are supposed to be talking. Is it Stephen? Are the two of you fighting?”
“No,” Caroline replied. Then grinned ruefully. “No more than usual, anyway.”
“Perhaps a problem with…ah…in the…er…bedchamber?”
“No, Mama. Everything is quite…very…more than well there.”
“Excellent. I hoped…I hoped very much you would enjoy the kind of passion I knew with your father. My word did that man make me long for winter.”
“Winter?”
“Oh yes,” Emily said wistfully, her eyes shadowing the way they always did when she retreated inside her mind to happier times, although she rarely spoke of her first husband. “His ship docked in port. Short days. Long nights. Even now, there is nothing I wouldn’t give for just one more.”
Caroline bit her lip to halt a barrage of questions. If she stayed silent perhaps she might learn something for once. It was patently ridiculous how little she and George knew of their true father, not even his full name for heaven’s sake. All that remained of the man who had given them life, who apparently loved them dearly until his untimely death in a shipwreck, was one small, intricately painted family portrait. It had shown a grinning blond giant of a man. He was dressed for seafaring in front of a large ship, one arm around her simply-gowned but beaming mother, each balancing a rosy-cheeked toddler on a hip. They clearly had little material wealth, but an abundance of bliss. Maddeningly, no information was included on the back, like the ship’s name or even the location, just a small note—‘Howard, Emily, George and Caroline, summer 1791’.
Rakes and Rogues Page 55