by Gina Conkle
“Smell what, Your Grace?”
A tang of brackish Thames air mixed with earth and man. Drays and carriages, carters and pedestrians stamped the earthen road, bringing goods from land and sea.
“Change.” The duke’s rheumy eyes opened. “The aroma of prosperous merchants. A frightening thing for people of my class, you know—especially prosperous upstarts like you.”
Cyrus hid one clenched hand behind his back, following the hum of activity before him.
“Your class has been around for centuries, will be for centuries more,” he asserted, his legs shifting to a wide stance. “Other men need only use the talents God gave them…grab a chance when it’s given.”
“Ah, therein lays the rub.”
Cyrus peered at the duke. He wasn’t strong on reading people, but balance sheets spoke volumes to a man’s character and priorities. Much could be found in them about Marlborough and what he loved most: not family but his home, the infamous Blenheim Palace. Cyrus didn’t want to dither with the duke over merchants and status of class; he preferred the company of the fair woman who aroused him like no other.
He regretted leaving at noon yesterday, was wavering even now on following Emerson’s advice.
“If you will speak plainly, Your Grace.”
The old man shook his head, a dry, dusty croak springing from his throat. Laughter was all wrong coming from Marlborough.
“There are few subtleties with you, Ryland. Very well.” Watery eyes stared out beneath a loose tie wig. “Blenheim Palace was my father’s reward for valor in battle. Lost it once over poor political choices. To his credit, he regained it. Now my beautiful Blenheim faces more threats.” His lips thinned. “I’ll not be the one to lose so fine a place in this world.”
Cyrus stared blankly at the road. “You want a loan.”
“I won’t take a loan,” His Grace sputtered. “To what end?”
He itched to say His Grace couldn’t afford a loan, but that would rub salt in festering wounds.
“Why should I put myself further in debt?” the old man railed. “I’ll not do it. I leveraged everything, everything on building warehouses in Runcorn. Now, Sir Richard Falsom contests the canal progress there. Before Parliament, no less.”
Cyrus knew of the costly warehouses sitting empty in Runcorn. Bridgewater had come to Cyrus’s bank for a loan to pay the laborers when his canal business stalled. Bridgewater had offered substantial collateral. Marlborough, by contrast, had offered none. He’d sought a loan, deeming position alone as worthy of the transaction.
“You want me to just give you money?” He shook his head. “Won’t happen.”
“But that’s precisely what you’ll do.” The duke’s eyes became hard pebbles. “Remember your sugar refinery?”
He faced Marlborough, eyes narrowing. Emerson was right.
“The night watchman was badly injured.”
A thin hand waved that off. “The men got carried away.”
The night breeze shifted, and Cyrus unwisely faced the New Union. Claire was about the business of extinguishing the lights, but looking at her was dangerous. Marlborough followed his gaze.
“You said a man should grab a chance when it’s given. I’m grabbing mine, Ryland. There’s a petition in the House of Lords to widen a section of Cornhill Road, authored by me. I shall paint myself the champion of midtown.”
Cyrus scowled, his fisted grip clenching harder at the small of his back. The duke’s eyes gleamed with malicious light. The silver-and-black cane swung an arc over the stretch of road before them.
“This section in particular works well, don’t you think?” He waved a gloved hand at the arches behind them. “What better place than the road in front of the Exchange?”
“Get to the point.”
“Very well. A row of buildings on the other side must be leveled…a blow to you since you own much of this section of Town, but a man of your wealth? You’ll recover.” Pallid lips turned with a cruel smile, and the duke’s gaze fastened on Claire’s shop. “However, certain proprietors in the area could face hardships.”
“You would do that over money?”
“Same as you’d toss opportunity over a bit of muslin.” The old man’s voice quavered. “And your nephews? I’ll make sure doors are closed to them. The only work they’d find is in some backward Irish village.”
Cyrus bit back a retort, forcing himself not to look across the road. Restraint served best when facing an opponent.
“Oh, I know about your coffee-shop girl.”
Cyrus jammed a hand in his pocket. “She was a passing flirtation, nothing more.”
The duke shrugged a gaunt shoulder, his visage bland and disbelieving. “Marriage to my daughter works in everyone’s best interest.”
Everyone but mine.
His Grace’s mouth twisted. “Keep her on the side if it pleases you.”
Claire.
He wanted to rub his chest. A vise could have been clamping its jaws on him. Instead, his fingers wrapped around the New Union master key buried in his coat pocket.
Everyone would be in a good place. Marlborough would save his home and save himself from financial peril. Zachariah, Simon, and Peter would have only the best doors opened to them. Merchants and their families would thrive, living as they had, undisturbed. None would have to face upheaval of home and business.
The duke’s plan worked neatly for others, and none would be the wiser.
Cyrus scanned the row of tidy, prosperous businesses lining the street. Claire stood outside the New Union’s door in pale blue, her head angling as though she spied him in the distance.
She will keep her shop.
A well-sprung carriage rolled up to the Royal Exchange arcade, blocking his view. The carriage bore the Marlborough family crest: a white lion rampant on a black canton. The duke poked his cane at the emblazoned door like an exacting headmaster.
“See that? You’re right about one thing: my class has survived the centuries.” His narrow chin shot up. “I sit in the House of Lords. Because of that, we will survive many more.”
Cyrus faced an ugly picture, but the shocking image wasn’t the duke: it was him.
His brows pinched something fierce. Was this old man a portrait of what could happen to him in a decade or two? A man bent under the sway of his own power?
Hungry for security at all costs?
A pair of footmen hopped from the back of the conveyance, quick to snap open the door and pretend invisibility while they stood and waited.
Marlborough leaned heavily on his cane. “I give you a week, or I move the petition forward with the full force of my name behind it.”
Claire. She needed his protection at all costs.
“How much?” he asked, the words dry in his throat.
His Grace smiled, the tips of his teeth showing. “The marriage contract for Elizabeth was delivered to your home today.”
The New Union’s key slipped from his hand, dropping to the bottom of his pocket.
The old man stepped up to the waiting carriage. “I look forward to your decision.”
* * *
Earlier that hour…
“One le petite mort and you’re ready to give him all your attention.” Juliette dabbed a serviette to her lips. “What about exploring other men? Have you learned nothing from me?”
Claire’s knife hovered over pieces of apple. “Oh, I had many more than one,” she corrected, almost laughing.
Smiling was something she hadn’t been able to stop doing since yesterday. All day, she had moved with loose-limbed, agile steps, Cyrus constantly on her mind. He would be there tonight.
“Humph.” Juliette’s eyes rolled. “Don’t let so much sex go to your head.”
“Not so loud,” she chided, her voice dropping lower. “Nate’s mopping the floors.
Besides, you’re the one always telling me to let a man put color on my cheeks.”
Juliette’s fork circled the air. “Of course, let him woo you, bring you wonderful gifts before you are chained to one man. Some men, you know, get what they want from a woman and then they are done. Everything is about the conquest.”
“It’s not like that with Cyrus.” She sliced the last apple chunks. “Not at all.”
Annie’s mouth quirked as she finished drying a dish, plain stoneware stacked in front of her. “Speaking of Mr. Ryland, miss, I saw my sister, Abigail, yesterday.” She picked a new plate and ran her drying cloth over it. “She told me about the pastries and some of the ladies casting their accounts all over the drawing room floor.”
Claire winced and set down the knife. “It wasn’t that bad…only a few spit out the bites they had taken.”
“What happened?” Juliette asked from her side of the table. “Those ladies didn’t like your pastries?”
“I must’ve salted the pastries for Miss Ryland’s luncheon…mistaken salt for sugar when making the glaze. It was a busy morning Saturday.” Claire scooped up the apple pieces and dropped them in a bowl. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, miss.” Annie’s voice went higher. “Something bad happened there and Ryland House is all abuzz.”
Claire folded her hands into her apron, wanting to wipe clean the disastrous social event.
Juliette set down her fork, wiping her mouth free of crumbs. “What do you mean, Annie?”
“Abigail says a thief taker came to the house…some problems with salt and destroying property at one of Mr. Ryland’s warehouses.”
“I know about it,” Claire admitted. “Cyrus told me. But I’m not convinced there’s a connection.” She grabbed another green apple and polished it on her apron. “My baked goods are of no consequence. It was just a simple cooking error.”
“But it wasn’t, miss,” Annie insisted. “Abigail says a whole crock of salt was empty. And there was a new maid, a young woman there for a few days, but after the salting, she disappeared, left the house without collecting her wages.”
Claire dropped into a chair, her head tilting toward Annie. “But why would a woman go out of her way to destroy my pastries?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbled, hefting the stack of plates in front of her. “Best I take these dishes and put them away, miss.” She walked to the archway and gave Claire an impish grin. “I do know one thing: that Mr. Ryland has put some color in your cheeks.”
Annie winked at Claire and disappeared into the shop, humming a jaunty tune. Claire picked up a paring knife and began peeling the apple. The apple’s juice was sticky on her fingers.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the salted baked goods?” Juliette asked. “That must have been too horrible for you.”
Claire smiled, slowing her progress on the apple. “Because you were in a hurry and you were more concerned with the carnal nature of my visitor than other such details.”
“Humph. And you need to be harder to get. Men like a chase.”
“Funny that you say that. Lady Foster gave similar advice.”
And she’s miserable, alone as she is.
“You see? It is as I said.” Juliette speared a bite. “You are being too easy.”
The Frenchwoman sat tall in a pretty, forest-colored dress, the deep shade complementing her features. Her friend meant well, but she turned what went on between men and women into something akin to a battle.
Claire reached for the sugar, testing the light grains on her tongue. Satisfied she had the right ingredient, she dumped the sweetener into the mix. In her grip, the wooden spoon swirled around the heavy, earthen bowl, the parts blending into what would become a luscious dessert.
Across the table, Juliette picked at her pastry. Claire pinched nutmeg into the bowl, the brown-black flecks falling lightly on sugarcoated apple pieces. Let the Juliette Sauveterres and Lady Fosters of the world have their way. She had hers, and the deep glow she felt was honest and true.
Her lips curled in a secret smile. There was hot sensuality with Cyrus, his nimble fingers and talented mouth having worked magic on her. But there was kinship, affinity, and humor. She would easily call him a friend and a partner, a man to walk proudly alongside.
“I’m going to tell Cyrus I love him. Tonight.”
Juliette stopped messing with her food, her dark eyes shrewd on Claire. “Why? Has he said as much to you?”
Claire draped cheesecloth over the bowl. “No.”
“Let the man be the first to make declarations of love. Then, you will be in a position of power.”
She reached behind to untie her apron. “This is not about wielding power. I want Cyrus, to laugh with and talk to. He values me. I want to be the same for him.”
Claire folded her apron twice and dropped it on the table. She washed her hands, smiling at her lofty ideas of what it meant to be with a man…with Cyrus—but carnal concerns overruled.
Languid hands and arms unpinned her mobcap. Next came the neckerchief, her mind drifting again to the man who’d find his way to her door, his strong shoulders offering a place upon which a woman could rest her head and hide away for a night.
A chair scraped across the floor. Juliette was up, retrieving her cloak and pattens.
“I worry you go too fast, my friend.”
They walked slowly into the shop, where Nate and Annie prepared to leave for the day.
Claire lifted a sconce from the wall and blew out the candle. “And I was beginning to think I wasn’t going fast enough.”
With a flourish, Juliette swept on her cloak, her dark eyes softening. “I do not want you hurt.”
“I won’t be.” She reached for another sconce. There was certainty in her step and an unconfined feeling to her hips.
Was that what a night with Cyrus Ryland did for a woman? No wonder Lady Foster was slow to disentangle herself from him.
“’Night, Miss Mayhew.” Nate called his farewell, slipping from the door followed by Annie. The cook gave a silent wave, her eyes alight with mischief.
Outside, the two bent their heads in conversation. Claire went from one sconce to the next, blowing out candles. Her task cast the shop in velvet half-light. With another candle in hand, she blew on the taper, but beyond the smoky spiral, her friend fussed with the tie under her chin.
Juliette never fussed.
“Is something wrong?”
Ebony eyes clouded, and the usually confident shoulders slumped.
“Elise will leave me soon.”
She set down the sconce and rushed to her friend in time to witness a fat tear drop to the floor.
“I’m so sorry.” Claire set a gentle hand on Juliette’s shoulder. “The two of you are always together. I never thought Elise would leave. Not without you.”
“Lord Marcus persuaded her to become companion to his mother for a time. The lady recovers from a terrible fall.”
The emphatic Miss Sauveterre dabbed another tear and examined her damp handkerchief. Her lips puckered with disapproval at the wetness.
“Non, this is good for her. She will be paid much more than the meager earnings we share.” Juliette sniffled, her lips quivering into a smile. “It is a great falsehood that I am the adventurous one.”
“Do you want to go back to the kitchen?”
“Non, I must go.” The Frenchwoman slipped on her pattens and opened the shop’s door.
Claire followed, crossing her arms against the chill. She couldn’t let her friend leave so abruptly after sharing painful news.
“I didn’t realize Lord Marcus’s mother was hurt.”
Juliette lifted her hood. “She took a fall from a horse and failed to inform her sons.”
“A fall from a horse?”
“According to Lord Marcus, she is head
strong.” A manicured hand waved off the explanation. “Elise journeys to Northampton this week, though she hasn’t met the older brother, the marquis.”
“I’ve met him.”
Claire brushed her hands up and down her arms, the friction heating her. She loitered under the New Union sign, her feet stamping the ground. Garbed in her heaviest blue wool dress, she’d wait a moment to make sure Juliette fared better before going inside.
Twilight painted midtown skies gray. Ribbons of lavender separated the clouds while, on the ground, carriages moved like black silhouettes. On the other side of Cornhill, one hulking conveyance shined with burnished brass fittings in line behind another ornate carriage.
Cyrus.
“Is that not your Mr. Ryland over there?” Juliette asked, tucking away her handkerchief.
He stood stiffly in front of the Exchange beside an older man.
“Yes. Yes it is.” Claire almost sang the words.
Did he see her? Cyrus faced the New Union Coffeehouse, his pewter stare remote beneath his black tricorne. She blinked, taken aback. Had she imagined his coolness? She stretched her neck, needing a better view, but a carriage rolled forward, blocking both men.
“You need to get your cloak,” Juliette cautioned her.
“Not yet.” Her focus stayed on the other side of the road.
She gathered handfuls of her skirts and stepped forward, moving closer to a carter passing by. Oddness settled in her midsection, though a visit to the Exchange was quite normal. Her feet moved a half step, ready to charge the road, but the bothersome carriage trundled forward.
Cyrus was still there.
A breeze twisted fallen strands of hair over her face. Larger carriages passed and she moved farther into the road.
She waved to him, her smile wide. “Cyrus?”
Stony hardness marked his features.
Needle-sharp cold pricked her skin. Such foolishness calling to him. Her voice was lost from this distance. Her arm dropped to her side.
Cyrus motioned to his carriage, not her.
The cumbersome silhouette rolled forward, blocking her view of him. She stepped into a shallow puddle, the earth squishing underfoot. The ground lacked a solid surface, throwing her off balance.