Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08]

by It Happened One Midnight

  He went still.

  “What other options?” His voice was low and taut.

  She inhaled, knowing the words would be like a dagger driven into him. “Lord Prescott has asked me to marry him.”

  He took the words like a blow. She could see the blank shock, the flinch. He shook his head. “Prescott? But . . .”

  “Because he wants me, Jonathan. Just the way you do. And apparently that’s the price he’s willing—and able—to pay.”

  She could tell the news was reverberating through him.

  “Prescott. Prescott gave you the pearls.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  “What did you give him in return?”

  “Unworthy, Jonathan,” she said. “I gave him nothing, and you know it. But it’s what he wants that matters here.”

  “What he wants?”

  “Think about it. If you love me, would you rather I live day to day like I am now, in this building, or in a measure of safety and comfort and security—all the things that someone like your sister, or Lady Grace Worthington, will always have? Why shouldn’t I have it, too?”

  “You don’t want to marry him.”

  “Of course not, you ass!”

  And that shocked both of them.

  But now she was near to weeping with fury and futility and fear. “And there you have it. My other option. Unless you count the possibility of our fortune arriving tomorrow. But we haven’t a fortune yet, have we, Jonathan?

  “No,” he said. “But we will. Don’t do it, Tommy. Not now. You don’t have to do it now.”

  “He gave me until the end of the month to give him a decision.”

  He closed his eyes. “Mother of God.”

  And then he swore violently beneath his breath.

  She flinched.

  “Jonathan . . . think about it. Do you want to live like that, cut off from everything else you love? Do you want me to live like this forever? Do you?”

  She couldn’t bear it. He was moving as though he’d been scalded, dressing furiously, jamming his arms through his shirtsleeves, knotting his cravat as though he wished it were a noose for his father.

  He stood staring down at her. Gulping her down with his eyes.

  “My father won’t win, Tommy. I will.” He said it quietly, evenly. It thrummed with the conviction of a blood vow. “I’ll have everything I want. And so will you. You just have to decide whether you trust me. And whether you love me more than you fear the future.”

  They stared at each other in furious weighted silence.

  Fear. How she hated to be accused of it. But she wasn’t prepared to make that decision now, when fear of the pain of losing him outweighed every other consideration. For it was that she couldn’t bear.

  “You best go now,” she said gently. “I need you to go now.”

  He closed his eyes. And when he opened them again, his expression almost made her say, “I take all of it back. Don’t go. Don’t go. Never leave me.”

  He didn’t move. He was tensed as a closed fist.

  Instead, she said, “Are you looking for something to throw?”

  He didn’t find something to throw. He found something to kick, however.

  The door. Hard. On his way out.

  Chapter 28

  IN THE DAYS THAT followed, Jonathan returned to the Redmond town house on St. James Square as if he’d never left. He was all that was polite and glib at the breakfast table.

  His father didn’t ask any questions. If he cast one or two lingering, querying looks in Jonathan’s direction, assessing him for signs of rebellion or heartbreak, Jonathan simply smiled benignly.

  You won’t win, Father. I will.

  It was his only thought as he passed the marmalade to his father, as he shaved in the morning, when his head hit the pillow in the evening. It was in the air he breathed.

  His behavior was so faultless that Isaiah departed for Sussex again to oversee business there.

  Jonathan frequented the print shop to see to the progress of orders, to review the plates, to pore over the books. Men and women had begun to commission decks of cards featuring their visages only on all the suits. Because they were single orders, requiring the preparation of unique plates, Klaus gleefully charged an exorbitant fee. Ah, the money to be had from the rich vein of vanity that ran through London.

  And Jonathan himself commissioned a special deck.

  “I’ll need it quickly, Wyndham. By the time the Diamonds of the First Water decks are prepared.”

  And then a scientist wished to publish a book featuring colorful anatomical illustrations, and Klaus was beside himself with possibility. Soon after that, a publisher commissioned Klaus to print colorfully illustrated limited editions of Miles Redmond’s famous South Sea Journals. Klaus had built two more printers and hired another helper at fair wages, a young man from the Bethnal Green workhouse named William, to help with all the extra work. But Charlie was quick and clever and thriving, and would soon be capable of more than sweeping and errand-running.

  And in every waking moment, in every step he took, Jonathan quietly seethed with purpose.

  And when his investment in the recent silks cargo finally paid off—nearly triple the original investment—Jonathan Redmond realized he was, officially and quite apart from his family’s money, wealthy. Modestly, yes.

  Certainly not Isaiah Redmond wealthy.

  Yet.

  But it was all his.

  He used the money to repay Tommy’s investment. She wasn’t wealthy, but she now had choices, which really was what she’d wanted all along.

  And he knew a fierce satisfaction that he was the one who had ensured she would be comfortable and safe. If she didn’t want to live in a building made of kindling anymore, then she certainly didn’t need to. If she didn’t want to marry a man with a title, she didn’t need to.

  If she didn’t want to marry anyone at all, she didn’t need to.

  He deposited her share in her account and sent round a message to tell her simply that.

  And he added:

  You wanted choices. Now you have many.

  P.S. Don’t do anything rash. —J

  Hardly a love note. But he wasn’t going to beg. If she trusted him, she quite simply wouldn’t do anything stupid, like leave London, or marry a viscount.

  And then he went to visit a solicitor.

  ROMULUS BEAN, ESQUIRE.

  The sign swung in a light breeze. His offices were in a rather unassuming location for a man who had caused Isaiah Redmond and the Duke of Greyfolk sleepless nights of tormented covetousness.

  Jonathan blew out a breath. And climbed the stairs, and opened the door.

  It was a tiny office, sparsely and elegantly furnished, impeccably neat. Mr. Romulus Bean was behind his desk, and like his office, he was a compact neat man, whose spectacles had slipped to the tip of his nose, and whose few remaining hairs clung to his head like shipwreck victims to a raft.

  Jonathan bowed. “Please forgive my intrusion, Mr. Bean, but I’d hoped you’d have a moment to speak with me.”

  Mr. Bean adjusted his spectacles and peered up at Jonathan. Evidently approving of the clothing, the accent, the bearing.

  “My name is Jonathan Redmond.”

  And that’s when a hint of irony darkened his features.

  “Are you related to . . . Mr. Isaiah Redmond?”

  He said it gingerly. And it was curiously uninflected. The way he said it rather called to mind how Jonathan felt about his father.

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know I’m here. I’m here entirely on my own behalf.”

  “Ah. Please do have a seat, Mr. Redmond. What then is the nature of your inquiry?”

  Jonathan settled into the chair across from the man’s desk. “I understand you’re the solicitor charged with the sale of the Lancaster Cotton Mill.”

  “I am indeed.”

  “I would like to purchase it.”

  Mr. Bean fell as silent as if someone had dropped a dome o
ver him.

  And then slowly, absently, he began rotating a glass of water on his desk round and round, slowly, with his fingers. Twisting it to and fro. To and fro.

  “I’ve a number of buyers interested in the property, Mr. Redmond. Can you tell me the nature of your offer? Perhaps your plans for the property?”

  During his long silence, Mr. Bean had clearly decided to be kind and to humor him, that much was clear. He didn’t believe for a moment that Jonathan had the capital.

  “I propose to pay for a portion of it in cash, a portion of it in a percentage share of my printing business, and to make payments on the rest. I can provide statements of my earnings and an accurate forecast of my future earnings.”

  A little silence ensued.

  “Payments.” Mr. Bean said the word delicately. As if he’d never dealt with anyone who would need to do anything so plebeian as to make payments. But it wasn’t unsympathetic. He had the look of a man who would love to glance at the clock in order to usher Jonathan along, but who was too innately polite.

  “And my plans are to either cease altogether the use of child labor, or institute dramatic changes. My first attempt will be find ways to train the children working there in a legitimate lifetime trade, find homes or apprenticeships for them, and hire adults.”

  Mr. Bean leaned slowly back in his chair then.

  He went still. Thoughtful.

  “Even the girls?” His voice was clipped now.

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Bean leaned forward again. He folded his lips in on themselves. He recommenced idly turning the tumbler of water. It was winding Jonathan’s nerves tauter and tauter. He was tempted to reach out and flatten a hand on top of Bean’s to make him stop.

  Too late. It finally wobbled and tipped, and water cascaded everywhere.

  Jonathan leaped backward.

  Mr. Bean shot to his feet. “Good heavens, I do apologize, Mr. Redmond! It’s just . . .”

  “Please don’t worry about it. It’s just water.”

  Jonathan fished out a handkerchief and handed it to Mr. Bean, who, flushed and abashed, diligently mopped and dabbed in silence for a time.

  He folded Jonathan’s handkerchief into neat little fours. “My apologies for drenching your . . .” He pushed up his spectacles higher on his nose again. He ran his thumb over the corner of the handkerchief.

  He looked up slowly. His expression was odd.

  “Will you do something for me, Mr. Redmond?”

  I’ll kiss you on the mouth if you sell me the mill. “What might that be?”

  “Will you say”—he cleared his throat and intoned—“ ‘Get off him, you fetid bastard!’ In a quite furious tone?”

  Jonathan blinked. “I beg your . . . well, if you insist. ‘Get off him . . .’ ”

  He halted.

  Because then he knew.

  “It’s you!” they shouted simultaneously. Gleefully.

  “You saved me from those ruffians!” Mr. Bean was beside himself.

  “You were the fellow outside the Plum & Pear who was beset by those . . . fetid bastards!”

  “They did stink!” Mr. Bean said happily.

  “Powerfully!”

  “You gave me your handkerchief! I bled all over it!”

  Jonathan silently, with great ceremony, rolled up his sleeve. “And I have a nice little knife wound. It impresses the ladies.”

  Mr. Bean admired the gash, then sat back, beaming, shaking his head wonderingly.

  “It’s the oddest thing, Mr. Redmond, but I’ve been inscrutable about my reluctance to sell the mill to certain parties, and it’s . . . for the very reasons you cited. That mill is a moral burden to me. I loathe the use of child labor. And the only way children will be treated more humanely, that things will change, is if passionate, influential individuals fight for stronger laws. I wonder”—he leaned forward—“have you considered running for parliament, Mr. Redmond? I strongly suspect you’d have a good deal of support. You seem to have the boldness of a politician. Saving my life makes an excellent story—quite revelatory of character, wouldn’t you say? Certainly the Redmond name holds a good deal of sway, and you’ve an undeniable presence.”

  He had an “undeniable presence,” did he?

  It was Jonathan’s turn to lean back in his chair and study Mr. Bean. “I have been told I’ve a certain amount to recommend me.”

  He closed his eyes. The idea spiraled, glittering, like a guinea into the well of his mind.

  And he knew, just knew, in the way he always did, that the idea was brilliant and right. And a peculiar sense of peace came over him.

  “I think, Mr. Bean . . . you’ve just said something very important.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to supporting you in the next election, Mr. Redmond.”

  Jonathan grinned.

  And they sat for a moment in bemused, delighted silence.

  “Well,” Mr. Bean said finally, with a drum of his fingers. “This is serendipitous. You don’t know how I’ve longed for an opportunity to thank my rescuer.”

  Jonathan leaned back and folded his arms behind his head.

  “Tell me, Mr. Bean . . . just how grateful are you feeling?”

  Chapter 29

  THE NIGHT BEFORE THE Diamonds of the First Water decks were due to appear in stores was a sleepless one for hundreds of members of the ton.

  All the young ladies who’d posed for Wyndham stared up at their ceilings, rigid with tension, praying that Lady Grace Worthington hadn’t been chosen, and that they had.

  Lady Grace Worthington lay awake all night trying to decide just how many decks she would purchase, for she was confident she would be featured. She hugged herself with pleasure, imagining her face in Almack’s and at every fine house in all of England.

  And dozens of young men worried over the wagers they’d placed via White’s Betting Books on the young women who would appear in the deck. And who Redmond would choose, if indeed he did choose, as he’d said he would do.

  And just before dawn, Charlie and Klaus and Klaus’s new assistant, William, began loading up the cart under cover of predawn darkness. The deliveries to shops all over London, in particular to the Burlington Arcade, would need to be finished by the time they opened.

  And each and every one of them wondered: Would Jonathan Redmond really choose a bride from a deck of cards?

  AND OVER IN the Building of Dubious Occupations, Tommy de Ballesteros hadn’t slept a wink, either, and not just because Rutherford was home all evening apparently entertaining a lady guest who must have been the same size as he was, such was the crashing and thumping. Rhythmic thumping. She tried hard not to imagine it, and then felt envious, and lonely, and achingly sad, and frightened.

  Because she knew today was the day the Diamonds of the First Water decks were meant to be delivered to shops.

  And the day Jonathan Redmond was rumored to be choosing a bride from the deck.

  If she rolled over and breathed in, she could still smell him faintly on her pillow. Or so she imagined. This made her spring upright and sit at the very edge of her bed and admire the stripes sent through her blinds by the moon. She pushed her feet into them, as though they were a soothing stream.

  She needed soothing. Today was an important day for her, too.

  For she’d come to a decision about Jonathan and Prescott.

  HE HADN’T SENT word ahead to his family that he would be leaving London for Pennyroyal Green. He simply rode all the way home, relishing the brisk weather, the opportunity to gallop, the time to plan and savor his mission.

  At Redmond House, he leaped from his horse, gave the reins to the groomsman, and dashed up the stairs to the house, handing off his coat and hat to the waiting footman.

  He paused only to smooth his hair in the mirror, knock the dust from his boots, and then he took the marble stairs two at a time up to his father’s library.

  His father was ensconced at his huge shining desk in his brown and cream refuge of a li
brary, bent over documents spread out the length of it. Jonathan could see a thinning spot on the top of his gray head. For a moment it was poignant. Isaiah Redmond is not indestructible. He will fray at the edges, crumple, return to dust, like everyone eventually does.

  Knowing this only solidified Jonathan’s resolve.

  He remained still for a moment, watching his father, lit by the light of the great window, unguarded, absorbed, frowning faintly. Probably still wondering why Romulus Bean still refused to sell the mill to him, but unworried; he would find a way to get what he wanted, for he always did.

  Jonathan rapped at the open door and his father’s head shot up.

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. Followed by a fleeting moment of what may just have been a bit of unease.

  “Well! What can I do for you Jonathan? Have you come to make me the proudest man alive by telling me you’ve drawn a bride from a deck of cards?”

  “It is indeed the designated day,” Jonathan said calmly, unsurprised his father knew. “But I thought you might like to do the honors. Since you inspired the idea.”

  He slipped his hand into his coat and retrieved the deck of cards. Gestured with it.

  This his father clearly wasn’t expecting. He stared at him, surprised..

  “Jonathan . . . I honestly . . .”

  Without invitation Jonathan strode over to his father’s desk and pulled up a chair. His father swiftly collected his documents, as if he feared Jonathan’s cards might taint them, but not before Jonathan saw the words written across the top of one: “Mercury Club Proposal for Acquisition of Lancaster Mill.”

  Jonathan pushed the deck of cards over to his father.

  “Go ahead, Father. Turn over the first card. Because that’s who my bride will be.”

  His father shifted his gaze, making a great show of looking at the clock behind him, then heaved a long suffering sigh, hiked a brow, delicately plucked up the top card, and turned it over.