You harebrain. It hadn’t been the coming war he’d spoken of that had kept her up—as it should have. But rather, their embrace. Magical. Dizzying. The memory of it had been so strong that sleep had eluded her, and left her attempting to think about her reason for being here in Staffordshire.
Enough.
It was just one kiss.
And she was a woman of twenty-seven, and as such, certainly old enough to take part in . . . in . . . those activities if she wished to. Not that she did, but if she did, she was an independent woman who didn’t need to rely upon a man, as her mother had.
No, but you do need to rely upon your reputation.
That reminder proved the most sobering one.
Grabbing her pale pink leather notebook, she flipped it open.
Biography of Mr. Rafe Audley
She tapped the edge of her feather quill back and forth from the table to the book, in a deliberate rhythm, while she thought. All her assignments began with a description of her charges. She would ask each mother or guardian to complete their own cataloging, and then she would complete one after an initial meeting to compare assessments. In the case of Rafe Audley, however, there had been no father or mother or guardian or . . . anyone from whom to elicit details. There’d been Hunter who’d told her but a few things. According to everything that had been revealed to her by His Grace, Rafe was even more a stranger to his father than she was to her own. Therefore, anything and everything she gleaned about Rafe was a product of her own observation and work.
Biography of Mr. Rafe Audley
She reread the same incomplete list she’d begun last night.
Edwina dipped her pen into the crystal inkpot, and tapping the excess from the tip, she set to work.
Biography of Mr. Rafe Audley
She stared at the line she’d just drawn.
Yes, well, that was something. And as she’d always said, doing something was better than nothing. Even if was just a little something. And in this case, it was very, very little.
Rafe Audley . . . has a sense of humor.
There, it wasn’t entirely a lie. She chewed at the feather, studying what she’d written. Neither, however, was it at all the truth. Just as it wasn’t helpful to not be completely honest with oneself in terms of her charge.
1. Rafe Audley . . . has a sense of humor . . . that lends itself to dry and sarcastic wit, that falls to either borderline or completely rude.
With that, Edwina found her rhythm.
2. Rafe Audley revealed himself capable of smiling. It is a perfectly captivating and interesting smile.
Nor was this particular detail about Rafe Audley an insignificant one. Smiles served both ladies and gentlemen alike. The perfect smile had the ability to ease awkward or tense exchanges. It had the ability to earn the attentions and affections of a potential spouse. And there was no doubting that Rafe Audley’s real smile would have the ability and power to captivate . . .
He might not be nobility by the rules laid out in Debrett’s Peerage, but he very much had hundreds of years of powerful, commanding, austere blood pumping coldly through his veins.
A figure stopped beside her table, jerking her out of her musings, and she looked up. “Miss . . . oh,” she said; Maryam Ward, the one who usually greeted Edwina as she broke her fast, had been replaced by her father. “Mr. Ward,” she substituted. “How are you this morn—?”
“What do you want?” he demanded sharply.
From what she’d discovered in her short time here, scowls ran in the Ward family, as distinct as their hooked noses and high foreheads. This one, however, was a good deal darker and grimmer than any that had ever been turned her way. “Tea, if you would.” She offered him another smile, and made to return to her work.
“Tea? You think you are the bloody queen of England?”
“No, just a tea-loving Englishwoman.”
“I’ve got ale,” the taproom owner snapped.
Another who was untrained in dealing with people of all temperaments might have been shaken by the dour fellow. “Water will suffice, Mr. Ward.”
He grunted, and shuffled off, returning a moment later. He heaved the pitcher onto the table, spraying droplets everywhere, splattering the notes she’d begun.
She gasped. Her papers. Her precious papers. Edwina skidded her chair back, and jumping to her feet, she searched with her hands for something to blot the damage that had been done. “A cloth, if you please?”
“Don’t have one.”
There came a hiccoughing chuckle from the old drunken patron set up at the corner table.
Hmph. She wiped her damp palms along the front of her skirts. Well, everyone here had turned rather rude, rather quickly. Why . . . it was as though, after four days here, those who’d been entirely pleasant were quite put out with her and by her. Edwina narrowed her eyes upon her damp documents . . .
And then all the pieces of the puzzle slid into their proper place:
The suddenly unfriendly owner.
The lack of tea when everyone, everywhere knew that people of every station and all castes in England drank the comforting brew. This time, when she looked to Mr. Ward, she kept her features even and her smile serene. “I . . . see . . .” And . . . she did. “That will be all, Mr. Ward.”
Nor did she imagine the flash of remorse in the old fellow’s rheumy eyes, right before he rushed off. No. Undoubtedly, she did not.
. . . war has been declared . . .
Why, Mr. Audley was trying to run her off.
And he’d enlisted help.
She drummed her fingertips. Well, that was fine . . . two could play at this game. Of course, it required two to play and . . .
She stopped abruptly.
Gathering up the folio she’d received from her employer, the duke, she searched through the documents until she landed on the one she sought.
Edwina tugged the page out.
You have at your discretion and disposal an unlimited sum by which to secure my son’s cooperation. Anything within your power to see that he complies, please, see to it . . .
See to it.
Unlimited funds.
Her discretion.
Drumming her fingertips on the top of the folder, she read those already memorized words over and over.
And then, Edwina’s gaze locked on those last two words.
Her discretion said he wasn’t going to come easily. Nay, it said he wasn’t going to come at all. He was, for reasons she’d never understand, determined to remain at the Cheadle coalfields, risking life and limb, when he could be pursuing a future that was safe and secure. She’d already ascertained that she couldn’t make him give up his work here . . . for any sum. Why, she rather thought he’d set the fortune his father would give to him ablaze than use those funds. Which was unlike any person she’d ever known. Because well, frankly, it was mad. People needed money. And most people could be bought . . .
Edwina immediately stopped her drumming.
Of course. Why had she not thought of it before now?
Why had not the duke, for that matter?
Rafe Audley couldn’t be bought . . . but his employer . . . well, he likely could.
Edwina snapped her book shut. Quickly gathering up her things, she stuffed them into the embroidered satchel at her feet.
She had two visits to see to this day.
Chapter 10
There was little rest to be had for miners. They worked twelve-hour days, and had but one day to call their own.
The miner’s day was one of the longest days a man, woman, or child could work. One filled with back-breaking labor that left a body sore, and eager for rest.
The last thing a person employed at a coalfield wished was for an end-of-workday summons from the coal master.
For Rafe
, however, it was not an unfamiliar call to receive. As the foreman, he was often summoned to give reports on the day’s haul and provide updates on any injuries or problems at the coalfield.
In fact, for him, these calls to discuss his work were welcome. And they were a good deal more welcome than dealing with the bothersome chit who’d been pestering him yesterday.
Rafe ducked under the slight doorjamb, and doffed his hat. “You called for me,” he said, by way of greeting.
He and Sparrow didn’t bother with pleasantries. They weren’t friends. They weren’t friendly. They didn’t even like each other. But they got on well enough in this arrangement in which Rafe had freedom and control over the coalfields.
“Aye. Sit. Sit,” Sparrow said distractedly. Puffing away on the pipe clamped between his teeth, the coal master held a magnifying glass close to the page of his books, and attended those numbers there.
Rafe slid into the seat across from the older man. And waited.
This was also a familiar game. Sparrow possessed a fragile ego, and though he needed Rafe, he didn’t like the fact that he did, and welcomed any opportunity to exert his power where he could.
That, however, was win enough for Rafe . . . that these waiting games no longer bothered him. Because it was a sign of his influence over the one who owned most of the village. Propping his mud-stained boot across his opposite knee, Rafe leaned back in his chair. And waited.
“I’m letting you go for a bit.”
Well, this was a new game. Calling him here for no reason, and then dismissing him. Rafe came to his feet. “Don’t waste my time, Sparrow. I have a coalfield to run. Your coalfield.”
“No. No. No. You misunderstand me,” Sparrow exhaled a perfect ring out the side of his mouth, and then waved the residual smoke away. “I am relieving you of your responsibilities.”
And for the first time in all the years he’d worked for Sparrow, the coal master managed to knock Rafe off-balance, cutting his feet out from under him, and he reseated himself, claiming that previously released spot in an attempt not to fall down. All the while, through Rafe’s tumult, Sparrow continued that relaxed survey of his profits.
Because surely Sparrow had not just said what he’d said.
As if he’d not stated his intentions to upend Rafe’s world.
Surely Rafe had heard him wrong.
Because nothing about this summons, and the words being spoken, made sense.
“You’re sacking me,” Rafe said blankly, in dumbfounded confusion.
“Didn’t say that.” The old coalfield owner didn’t even bother to lift his head. He just continued to move that glass against his eye, back and forth, skimming those numbers, his profits, profits he wouldn’t have come close to having without Rafe working for him as he had.
The ticking of the bracket clock at the back center of Sparrow’s desk grated, that incessant beat more pronounced in the otherwise heavy silence of the room.
And it took seven of those passing moments for Rafe to realize . . . why the old bastard had no intention of saying anything else. Surging out of his chair, he leaned across the desk and slammed his coal-stained hand upon those neat, meticulous columns, leaving a black palm mark upon it.
Sparrow jumped. “Hey! Have a care, Audley.” The coal master swallowed wildly, his cheeks pale and his gaze uneasy, rendering that warning empty.
“What the hell game are you playing?” Rafe snarled.
Sparrow adjusted his snowy white cravat. “N-No game. I’m merely . . . testing out some changes.”
Testing out some changes? Why in hell would he even think of, let alone do such a thing? Ridding Rafe of his role threatened his profits. “I bring you a fortune. No one could make you even consider—”
He narrowed his eyes. Of course, now it made sense. It had been inevitable.
“By God . . . the duke got to you.” That was all there was to it. He’d come here, to his place of work, and robbed him of what mattered most: his work in the coalfields, that role he’d risen to and took pride in.
“Nobody gets to me,” Sparrow scowled. “But . . . I do see the benefits to your improving yourself in London. You’ll serve me better when you come back.”
Rafe inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly through his clenched lips, the breath leaving him on a quiet exhale.
Dead. He was going to kill Sparrow dead.
And yet . . . neither was that rage properly placed. It belonged squarely with the one who’d set to work interrupting Rafe’s life these past months.
“I am asking you to reconsider.”
The coal master took another pull of his pipe, holding that smoke in his mouth for several moments, before letting it out. “I’m a man driven by money. You know that better than anyone. You can’t make me more than I’m being offered to just give you up for a bit.”
Give him up for a bit . . .
His father had coordinated and his employer had agreed to what Rafe would do. Robbing him of choice, as if he weren’t a man free to make his decisions. “How much?” What was the going rate to control one’s son?
“One thousand pounds.” Rafe choked. “Enough to cover the salary of you and the next five foremen after you.” Sparrow shrugged his wide shoulders. “Can’t expect a man would turn those monies down.”
No. He didn’t. And certainly not this man before him. Not for Rafe. And yet, it also did all come down to how much stood to be made. Rafe ground his finger into the desk as he spoke. “My work earns you much more than one thousand pounds a year. You’d never go about thinking to replace me with someone inferior for that amount.” He’d be a damned fool, and a poor businessman, and Rafe had worked with him long enough to know he was neither.
Sparrow leaned back in his chair and settled one hand over his enormous belly. With the other, he clasped his pipe. He took another puff from that nauseant scrap. “I’m far too clever with my profits and the running of my mine to hire an inferior.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. “There’s no one better than me.”
“Yes, but there is . . . someone close. Someone you’ve trained, and whom you respect, and as such”—Sparrow’s spine grew, as with each word spoken strength returned to those nasal tones—“you would be hard-pressed to fault your temporary replacement.”
“Who?” Rafe asked bluntly.
“Quite skilled. Efficient.”
“I said who?” he thundered.
The other man jumped a meter in his seat. “Hunter.”
Rafe rocked back on the balls of his feet. “Hunter?” he echoed dumbly. As in . . .
“Your brother,” Sparrow clarified that confused question Rafe still attempted to sort through. “Hunter Audley.”
“Have you—?”
“I shared the news of his changing role with the coalfields earlier today.”
Rafe reeled under this revelation . . . and betrayal. It felt very much like that, too. Rafe glanced about. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. “You despise Hunter.”
“Yes, I do.” Sparrow gave another shrug. “But I don’t much like you, either.”
Fair enough.
He tried again, fighting for his place here. “You don’t want to do this, Sparrow.”
The old coal master lifted a bushy white brow. “Are you challenging your brother’s ability to oversee your role, Audley?”
As a boy, his often-sad mother only found a smile when she was either preparing to journey to London to visit the duke . . . or sitting down to play chess with Rafe. Even though she’d been rubbish at it, and he’d invariably won.
This, however, was a first: another person had declared checkmate against him. For Sparrow, in this, was correct. To gainsay these changes would mark him as disloyal to the last person he’d be disloyal to. The brother he loved and sought to protect and had . . . and the brother who would now also f
ill Rafe’s role.
The same brother who’d apparently thought nothing of stepping in to fill Rafe’s role here.
Resentment soured in his belly and filled his mouth. “How much of my time here did he buy from you?”
“The London Season. See . . . just a few months and then you can resume your work. Really convenient for the both of us. I couldn’t agree more with you. It is ridiculous imagining you going to Town, but . . .” He shrugged. Again. Just that and nothing more.
To keep from storming around the desk and burying his fist in the other man’s face or, worse, saying something he might regret about his brother, Rafe grabbed his cap, jammed it onto his head, and stormed out, slamming the door hard behind him. With fury fueling his strides, he made the march home.
First, Bentley had sent a steady parade of his minions.
Then, he’d sent the always-ebullient Miss Dalrymple.
And here he’d been so very convinced that no one could be worse than her. Yes, Rafe had been beyond certain that it couldn’t get any worse than having his peace and work disturbed by the Duke of Bentley’s latest lackey, Miss Edwina Dalrymple.
Only to be proven wrong.
So very wrong.
For when Edwina and the lackeys before her had failed, the duke had persisted. When nothing else had worked, he had come for Rafe’s job. It was an infuriating reminder of how the duke thought nothing of manipulating Rafe and his siblings. To the Duke of Bentley, they were mere strings that he was pulling on; Rafe was being forced to dance to whatever tune he played.
And apparently, in order to secure his role as foreman, Rafe would have to journey to London. Or, at least, that was what the duke expected. He no doubt thought he’d tied Rafe’s hands.
Over my dead body.
Stalking quickly down the gravel path that led to the front door of his cottage, he pressed the handle and let himself in.
Along Came a Lady Page 11