ABOUT THE AUTHOR

#1 New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing romances as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career when her first novel was accepted for publication, and with entirely becoming alacrity, she gave up writing about facts in favor of writing fiction.

All Laurens’s works to date are historical romances, ranging from medieval times to the early 1900s, and her settings range from Scotland to India. The majority of her works are set in the period of the British Regency. Laurens has published more than 60 works of historical romance, including 36 New York Times bestsellers. Laurens has sold more than 20 million print, audio-, and e-books globally. All her works are continuously available in print and e-book formats in English worldwide, and have been translated into many other languages. An international bestseller, among other accolades, Laurens has received the Romance Writers of America® prestigious RITA® Award for Best Romance Novella 2008 for The Fall of Rogue Gerrard.

Laurens’s continuing novels featuring the Cynster family are widely regarded as classics of the historical romance genre. Other series include the Bastion Club Novels, the Black Cobra Quartet, and the Casebook of Barnaby Adair Novels. All of her previous works remain available in print and all e-book formats.

For information on all published novels, and on upcoming releases and updates on novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website: www.stephanielaurens.com.

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Stephanie lives with her husband and two cats in the hills outside Melbourne, Australia. When she isn’t writing, she’s reading, and if she isn’t reading, she’ll be tending her garden.

The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

Stephanie Laurens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08297-6

THE PURSUITS OF LORD KIT CAVANAUGH

© 2019 Savdek Management Proprietary Limited

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

INTERIOR ARTWORK

IS LOCATED

BETWEEN CHAPTER 17 AND THE EPILOGUE

and also can be accessed via the TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

There was no denying that, to her, the real Kit Cavanaugh was far more attractive than the ton version had ever been. Even though, in that ton version, for more than five years he had been her romantic ideal—her fantasy gentleman—that status had been based purely on his physical attributes; she’d never liked or approved of his character—the character she and the ton had been led to believe was his.

Although she’d reined in her senses as tightly as she could, she remained excruciatingly aware of him walking close beside her; his strength, the controlled grace investing his powerful frame, and the sheer physicality of his presence impinged on her nerves, made her lungs constrict, and set her heart to beating just a soupçon faster.

He drew her—lured her—as no other man ever had.

As she’d discovered at the wedding, when it came to him, no amount of denial—not even imagined deficits of character—made the slightest difference to that intrinsic, instinctive attraction.

Contents

Cover

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

Copyright

Artwork Note

Introduction

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

Interior Artwork

EPILOGUE

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1
September 18, 1843On the Bath Road east of Bristol

“Steady, lads.” Lord Christopher Cavanaugh, known to most as Kit, drew his matched bays to a stamping halt on the rough grass of the roadside lookout. The high-bred horses shifted and snorted; having recently rested in an inn’s stable while Kit and his companions partook of luncheon, the pair were eager to run again.

But Kit wanted a moment to look ahead—at the roofs, towers, and spires, and the glinting silver-gray ribbon of rivers that made up the city of Bristol, displayed like a colorful patchwork in the shallow valley at the end of their road.

The day was cool but fine, with a fitful breeze meandering up the valley. Eyes narrowing, Kit surveyed the city he planned to make his home. Today would see his first true step into the future he was determined to craft and claim.

He’d been adrift all his life, with no rudder to guide him and no port to call his home. For the past decade—ever since he’d come on the town—he’d had no direction, no goal... No. Not true. His one aim—his single focused goal—had been to avoid the fate his mother, Lavinia, the late Dowager Marchioness of Raventhorne, had planned for him.

She’d been a schemer of near-unimaginable degree, intent on controlling and exploiting the lives of her four children for her own gain. In Kit’s case—as for his older and younger brothers—she’d expected to barter the position of their wives for wealth or, at the very least, valuable influence. Kit had reacted by painting himself as an indolent rake of the sort no sane parent would want anywhere near their daughter. His reputation in the ton had become a solid shield, one that had enabled him to walk society’s halls without fear of being trapped in order to help his younger sister, Stacie, avoid a similar fate.

Lavinia had been a demon in human guise. They—her four children—had been beyond shocked when they’d finally learned the full gamut of her evil schemes. She’d tried to kill her stepson, Ryder, Kit’s older half brother, whom Kit and his siblings adored, in order to replace Ryder, then the marquess, with her eldest son, Kit’s older brother Rand; only Ryder’s remarkable strength, physical and mental, and the support of his wife, Mary, then the marchioness, had allowed them both to survive. Subsequently captured, Lavinia had lost her life in a vain attempt to flee justice.

Even now, the thought of her and her doings chilled Kit’s heart.

His mother had died in the summer of 1837, bringing to an abrupt end a chapter in his and his siblings’ lives that they all had thought would never end. Nevertheless, it had taken years for the effects of her version of mothering to start to fade—for Rand, Kit, Stacie, and their youngest brother, Godfrey, to shed the invisible chains and adjust their now-instinctive, habitual reactions toward others as well as themselves.

Or, Kit temporized, at least shake loose enough of those chains to take up the challenge of shaping their own lives and make a start.

For Rand—arguably the most impacted by their mother’s schemes, but also the oldest of the four siblings and possessing a quiet inner strength similar to Ryder’s implacable will—that had meant becoming a leading light in investor circles, specializing in supporting promising inventions. Less than a month ago, Rand had taken what Kit saw as the final step in emerging from their shared past by marrying Felicia Throgmorton, the daughter of one of the inventors Rand had backed.

Kit had seen Rand and Felicia two days ago, when they’d driven over from their new house to visit with Ryder and Mary at Raventhorne Abbey, the family’s ancestral pile, where, since the wedding, Kit had been staying. Contentment had settled about Rand like a cloak, and a species of happiness had infused his eyes and his expression whenever he’d looked at Felicia, leaving Kit to surmise that Rand and Felicia were well on the way to finding the same sense of settled peace and relaxed joy in life that Ryder had found with Mary.

The atmosphere of happy family life that now pervaded the Abbey was something Kit had never experienced over the decades he’d called the Abbey home. He envied his nephews and niece—Ryder and Mary’s children—the warmth and unqualified acceptance in which they were growing up. The unstated yet all-embracing love and support of their parents.

Having watched Rand steadily making his own way—his own name—in society and beyond, Kit had decided it was time he did the same—that it was time he made a start on assembling the various elements of the life he wanted for his own.

He wanted to build ocean-going yachts. More—he aspired to be the pre-eminent force in the evolving field. In the same way that dealing with investments played to Rand’s strengths and interests, Kit felt that yacht-building would make the most of his longtime obsession with all things sailing and his ability to lead men and act as manager, facilitator, and negotiator.

He was good with his hands, and he was good with his head. He always had been.

When Rand had announced his engagement, Kit had been on his way to Bermuda, chasing down Wayland Cobworth. Wayland was an old friend of Kit’s from Eton days who shared his passion for superbly designed sailing vessels; coming from a significantly less wealthy family than the Cavanaughs, instead of going to university, Wayland had apprenticed to an expert draftsman and ship-designer and was now one of the up-and-coming designers of yachts.

Wayland knew the quality of Kit’s determination—that when he set his sights on achieving some goal, that goal would be achieved; convincing Wayland of Kit’s vision for Cavanaugh Yachts and of the desirability of Wayland’s potential position in the company hadn’t been all that hard.

Kit had had to take ship back to England almost immediately in order not to miss Rand’s wedding; he’d made it, but with only minutes to spare. Wayland had had to finish a design for the company he’d been working for before heading back to England, sailing directly to Bristol.

“It’s bigger than I’d thought,” Smiggs, Kit’s groom-cum-stableman, observed, breaking through Kit’s introspection.

Smiggs was perched behind Kit. Kit had co-opted Smiggs, several years older than he, from the Abbey stables when he’d first gone on the town. Smiggs had eagerly thrown in his lot with Kit, and subsequently, they’d shared many an adventure. Kit considered Smiggs a confidant of sorts and knew he could rely on the wiry man’s support in any situation.

“This is one of the few decent views of the city sprawl,” Kit said, “and last time, we didn’t stop to look.”

“Last time” being two weeks before, when he and Smiggs had driven over for a few days to allow Kit to make the necessary arrangements for taking up residence in the city. Among other things, he’d finalized the purchase of a decent-sized house in a good neighborhood and had discussed leasing a warehouse on the Floating Harbor with the Bristol Dock Company.

“So, Mr. Cobworth should have arrived a few days ago,” Smiggs said.

Kit nodded. “He wrote that his ship would dock on the sixteenth.” Kit grinned expectantly. “I imagine that, after having two days to reconnoiter, Wayland will be eager to forge on.”

“When’s your meeting with the Dock Company?” Smiggs asked.

Kit shifted to draw out his fob watch. “Not until half past three.” He checked the time, then tucked the watch back. “It’s just after two o’clock. We’d better get moving.”

“Will Mr. Cobworth be staying with us?”

Turning his head, Kit glanced at the younger man standing behind the rail alongside Smiggs and smiled. “No, Gordon.” Until recently, Gordon had been a footman at the Abbey, but Mary had allowed Kit to lure him away to fill the role of Kit’s majordomo. “Mr. Cobworth likes his own space, for which we should all be thankful—as he tends to lose himself in his work and often works very odd hours, he’s not a comfortable houseguest.”

“Oh.” Gordon’s eyes had widened. He was of similar age to Kit, but had led a much more sheltered life.

Reminded of the tasks he had to complete before he joined Wayland at the scheduled meeting—during which Kit hoped they would be able to sign the lease on the warehouse he intended to convert to their yacht-building workshop—he faced forward and lifted the reins. “We’ll drive straight to the solicitor’s office and pick up the house keys, then go and take possession.” Of the first house he’d ever owned. Releasing the brake, he continued, “I’ll leave you two to get settled and organized. The solicitor will have the direction of a household staff employment agency. Gordon—you’ll know the sort of people we need.”

“Yes, my lord,” Gordon promptly replied. “You may leave all that to me.”

Kit smiled at the eager pride in Gordon’s voice; he had no doubt Gordon would take to his duties with the keen fervor of one out to make his mark. Thinking further, Kit said, “I left a note at the shipping office to be given to Mr. Cobworth when he landed. I imagine he’ll be waiting impatiently outside the door of the Bristol Dock Company at half past three.” Champing at the bit to get on.

As were Kit’s horses. He steered them out of the lookout and back onto the road.

Then, smile deepening and with a sense of expectation—and, yes, eagerness—welling, Kit flicked the reins and set the bays trotting.

He might have lived for twenty-nine years, yet to his mind, today was the first day of his adult life.

* * *

Across a long, highly polished table, Kit, with Wayland beside him, faced five members of the board of the Bristol Dock Company.

“So”—the chairman, a Mr. Hemmings, exchanged a swift glance with his fellow directors before returning his gaze to Kit—“are we correct in thinking that you anticipate hiring local men to build your ships?”

Kit nodded. “To build and, ultimately, to service our yachts. Once we’ve established Cavanaugh Yachts as a going concern, we intend to look into sailmaking as well, either to invest in an established business or commence one of our own.”

He was unsurprised by the direction of the chairman’s probing; he’d done his homework and knew the Dock Company was under increasing pressure from the local council over the loss of jobs on the docks. With the advent of steamships and the changes in materials and practices building such vessels entailed, many men who had previously had steady employment in the shipyards were now out of work. Restless, unhappy, and at a loose end—prime targets for those sowing social discord.

“I understand,” Kit continued, “that we should be able to find workers with the expertise we require reasonably easily.”

“Oh, indeed—indeed,” huffed another of the directors. “Good to know that the old ways of sail aren’t going to completely disappear, what?”

Just two months earlier, Brunel, who had launched his first ocean-going iron ship, the SS Great Western, five years before, had launched his latest wonder, the SS Great Britain, the first propeller-driven, ocean-going iron ship—both ships built in the Bristol yards.

Steam power had changed the face of ship building, tossing many shipyard workers on the scrap heap.

Cavanaugh Yachts held out the prospect of giving some of those workers a new lease on working life.

Kit smiled. “Just so. And from my earlier visit, I gathered that, what with the difficulties the Floating Harbor poses to larger-draft ships and the consequent drift of shipyards and warehousing to Avonmouth, there are quite a few opportunities to secure space of the sort we need on the docks here.”

At that, the company men exchanged another meaning-laden glance, then Hemmings clasped his hands before him, leaned forward, and met Kit’s gaze. “As you say, my lord, we’ll be happy to see Cavanaugh Yachts take up residence on our docks.”

The company secretary, a Mr. Finch, a desiccated man in sober black, cleared his throat and looked down as he shuffled several papers. “We understand you’re interested in the warehouse off the Grove.”

Kit nodded. “That seemed the most suitable. We require ready access to the harbor, and in size and location, that seemed the best of the properties you showed me earlier.”

Wayland shifted; several inches taller than Kit, he was long and lanky and exuded the air of a man who possessed little patience for the minutiae of life. Wayland fixed the secretary with his dark gaze. “Do you have any other properties similar in size and location to that one?”

Finch blinked at Wayland, then looked down. “No—that’s really the only warehouse in that stretch that’s immediately available.”

As if suddenly reminded of something, the chairman glanced at Kit. “You propose to commence work soon?” An “I hope” hovered in the air.

Kit exchanged a swift look with Wayland, then replied, “If we can come to an agreement today, then we are prepared to start hiring immediately.”

“Ah...” Finch caught Hemmings’s eye. “As to that...when I said the warehouse was immediately available, I was referring to the fact that it’s not formally leased. However, there’s a charity group that has been using the space free of charge—I expect they will need a few days to vacate.”

“How long?” Wayland’s tone suggested the point might influence his and Kit’s thinking.

“Oh—just a few days.” Hemmings sent the secretary a sharp look.

One of the other directors leaned forward to suggest, “Shall we say by the end of the week?”

The other company men, including Hemmings and Finch, nodded and, faintly anxious, looked at Kit.

Kit glanced at Wayland, hesitated for effect, then said, “I suppose we could use the next few days to hire workers and organize supplies.” In truth, a few days was no skin off their noses, but given they’d yet to discuss the details of the lease, keeping the directors off balance seemed wise.

Wayland replied with a somewhat sulky shrug.

Kit looked back at Hemmings and Finch. “Perhaps, gentlemen, we should get down to brass tacks.”

The directors were very ready to do so, but neither Kit nor Wayland were new to the art of negotiating deals. Both Ryder and Rand had taken ten percent stakes in Cavanaugh Yachts, and Kit used their names and backing to further strengthen his and Wayland’s hand. The discussion went back and forth, revisiting this point before agreeing on that.

Finally, the directors agreed to a price and conditions that Kit and Wayland were prepared to accept, including a stipulation they had pressed for—an indefinite option to purchase the warehouse outright after a period of two years.

While Wayland had a thirty percent stake in the company, Kit remained the majority owner. Consequently, when Finch prepared and presented the lease, it was Kit who signed first, then he passed the document and pen to Wayland while doing his best to conceal the elation that filled him.

They’d made their first major commitment and had secured the space they needed to forge on.

Wayland, also battling a grin, signed with a flourish, and the secretary and chairman quickly countersigned.

Finch duly presented Kit with their copy of the lease.

“Thank you.” Kit glanced at the document, then folded it. As he tucked it into his coat pocket, he looked at the directors and smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“I must insist that the pleasure is all ours, your lordship.” Hemmings rose and, beaming genially, waved toward a nearby sideboard. “Can I offer you a small libation to celebrate our deal?”

Kit and Wayland accepted glasses of brandy and stood and chatted about the city—extracting as much useful information as they could. After the other three directors made their excuses and left, Kit turned to Finch. “Although our tenancy doesn’t commence until the beginning of next week, Mr. Cobworth and I would like to take a quick look at the inside of the warehouse. While I’ve been inside before, Mr. Cobworth hasn’t, and to ensure we order the correct timbers for the initial fitting out, he needs to note the placement of the beams.”

“If we could gain access for half an hour today, that would be ideal,” Wayland put in.

Finch and Hemmings exchanged a long glance—long enough for Kit to wonder what unvoiced thoughts passed between them. Then, lips primming, Finch nodded. “If you can indulge us regarding the time—will five-thirty this evening suit?”

Kit looked at Wayland and arched his brows.

“It’ll be close to dark by then.” Wayland’s faint frown suggested he was thinking rapidly. “But I can pick up a few lanterns.” Expression clearing, he met Finch’s gaze. “Yes—that will do.”

“Excellent.” Hemmings clapped his palms together. “We’ll meet you outside the warehouse at five-thirty, then.”

Wondering why they couldn’t go now, Kit asked, “Is there any difficulty with us taking a look around the outside earlier? Now, for instance.”

Again, Hemmings’s and Finch’s gazes met, then Finch cleared his throat and explained, “We haven’t yet broken the news to the charity that’s been using the space, and we won’t be able to do so until tomorrow, when their manager is in their office. It would be...awkward if those at the warehouse were to learn of the situation prior to the manager being informed.”

“Ah—I see.” At least as far as them going to the warehouse now. Kit inclined his head to both men. “In that case, we’ll hie off to find some lanterns and will see you gentlemen outside the soon-to-be Cavanaugh Yachts workshop in...just over an hour.”

Finch’s and Hemmings’s faces lit with what Kit saw as pleasure tinged with relief. With a return to their celebratory mood, the pair farewelled Kit and Wayland, vowing to meet them shortly.

Kit was inwardly shaking his head as, with Wayland beside him, he stepped onto the pavement outside the Dock Company building.

For his part, Wayland was actually shaking his head.

Kit halted and eyed his friend. “What?”

Wayland shrugged. “Nervy lot.” He looked around. “I think the nearest hardware store is that way.” He pointed down the quay.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Kit fell in beside Wayland as he led the way.

* * *

When, an hour later, Kit and Wayland rounded the end of Princes Street and walked onto the stretch of waterfront known as the Grove, it was to see Finch and Hemmings waiting farther along, outside the door of the third warehouse from the corner.

Evening had fallen and was edging toward night, and the slap of wavelets against the pilings was increasingly audible as other workaday noises faded. The row of warehouses fronted directly onto the Grove, with a narrow, cobbled lane separating their façades from the rough grass beneath the line of trees that gave the area its name. Beyond the trees, lamps were spaced along the river’s edge, but the warehouses lay far enough back that only faint light reached their doors.

Wayland huffed. “Just as well we got these lanterns.”

They’d bought four hurricane lanterns, reasoning that they would surely need them as the days grew shorter.

As they approached the warehouse, Kit nodded in greeting. “Hemmings. Finch.”

Hemmings smiled and half bowed.

“My lord. Mr. Cobworth.” Having already unlocked the padlock that secured the doors, Finch lifted the latch and drew one of the double doors back.

Kit caught the edge of the second door and hauled it wide.

Wayland walked inside, then halted and, through the dimness, looked around. After several seconds, he bent and set down the two lanterns he’d carried and crouched to light them.

Kit stopped a pace away. He put the two lanterns he’d carried beside Wayland’s two. When light flared and Wayland replaced the glass surround on the first lantern, then turned to light the next, Kit picked up the first lantern, raised it, and played the beam around the gloomy space.

Although his hands remained busy lighting the lanterns, Wayland looked up, too. After a moment, he said, “The floor’s good—nice and even and the planks are well-laid and the surface smooth. As for layout...offices to the right, along the side wall. Receptionist and foreman in one closer to the door, then the rest of that space is mine.”

By which Wayland meant that his design studio would take up the space behind the front office. Kit grunted in agreement; as Wayland gave his attention to the lanterns, Kit turned and swept the lantern’s beam over the other side of the warehouse.

The doors were off center, closer to the right, leaving the bulk of the warehouse to the left. The space was surprisingly uncluttered; there was no detritus—no ropes, broken struts, hessian, or any of the usual accumulated rubbish one tended to find in the corners of such buildings.

Wayland rose, a lantern in his hand; standing beside Kit, he directed the lantern upward, splashing light across the beams overhead. After a moment of studying them, Wayland murmured, “Good call choosing this place. Those are solid.” With the lantern, he traced one of the three main beams across to the wall, playing light over the upright support there, then he turned and examined the support on the other side. Then he flashed Kit a grin. “We’ll be able to set our pulleys up there and lift our hulls with no problem at all.”

“Excellent.” Kit peered deeper into the shadows to the left and spotted a row of raised desks lined up along the side wall. They looked like a conglomeration of clerk’s desks and draftsman’s desks with sloping tops. A goodly number of tall stools stood clustered at one end of the line.

“Presumably from the charity,” Wayland said. “The desks look to be in too-good condition to be discards.”

Surveying the desks, Kit murmured, “It must be some sort of charity for the indigent. I assume they’ll take them away.” Kit turned back to survey the area they’d elected to make into offices. “Where do you want to start measuring?”

Wayland waved. “Let’s start by the door.”

Wayland always carried an extendible metal measuring rod, along with notebook, pencil, and chalk. Between them, they marked and measured the dimensions of the offices, with Wayland noting everything down so he could draw up a plan and work out what timbers were required for the construction.

Once they’d finished measuring the offices, ignoring the pair at the door, who shifted restlessly as darkness encroached and a chill rose off the river, Kit helped Wayland make a series of measurements relating to the pulley gantry Wayland had in mind to allow them to work on multiple hulls at the same time with only one overhead hoist.

Finally, still busily jotting in his notebook, Wayland declared, “That’s all I need for now. I’ll draw up the plans and check in with you tomorrow. Once you sign off, I’ll get the timbers ordered. We’ll also need steel for the gantry.” He paused to glance around the shadowy space. “Depending on the caliber of the men we hire, it’ll take a few days to construct the offices and the gantry. By then, I’ll have the hull design ready, and we can move the men on to the frame for that.”

He met Kit’s eyes. “That’ll be a good start.”

Kit nodded. “An excellent start, even if we do have to wait until Monday to commence.”

Looking around one last time, Wayland muttered, “We’ll have to see what level of carpenters we can find.”

Kit waved toward the door; Hemmings and Finch were still waiting there. As he and Wayland crossed toward them, Kit called, “Thank you for arranging this, gentlemen.”

“Our pleasure, your lordship.” Rubbing his hands together, Hemmings stepped back as Kit and Wayland, having collected and doused the lanterns, emerged from the warehouse. “I take it all is satisfactory?”

“Entirely,” Kit returned with a reassuring smile.

Wayland handed his lanterns to Kit and helped Finch close the warehouse doors.

Kit watched Finch secure the latch with the padlock. Recalling the desks they’d seen and with Wayland’s words rolling around in his head, when Finch turned, Kit caught his eye. “Might some of the men attending the charity”—Kit tipped his head toward the warehouse—“be suitable for employment in our yacht-building enterprise?”

Finch blinked, then cut another of those weighted glances at Hemmings. After a second, Finch returned his gaze to Kit and shook his head. “That’s highly unlikely, my lord. But there’s an excellent labor exchange just around the corner on the quay.” Finch pointed in that direction. “For carpenters and the like, that’s where I’d ask—it’s the most likely place to find workmen of the sort I believe you’ll need.”

Keeping his expression relaxed and uninformative, Kit studied Finch for a heartbeat; something about the charity made Finch and Hemmings nervous, but Kit couldn’t imagine what it might be. “Thank you.” Kit inclined his head to Finch. “Either myself or Mr. Cobworth will call there tomorrow.”

He and Wayland parted from the two Dock Company men with handshakes, renewed thanks, and cordiality all around, then, on Hemmings’s recommendation, Kit and Wayland headed for the Dragon’s Head public house for dinner.

* * *

Sylvia Buckleberry sat at the small desk in her cramped office in the shadow of Christ Church and, head bent, carefully tallied her ledgers, penny by penny accounting for the expenditures of the previous month.

Outside the small window at her back, the morning was fine, the sky a soft autumnal blue with a gentle breeze skating fluffy white clouds across the heavens. The cooing of the doves that nested around the church tower provided a pleasant background drone, punctuated by the skittering of ravens on nearby roofs.

Sylvia did her best to blot out the distractions of the pleasant day. Arithmetic had never been her strong suit, but given she was spending the parish’s funds, she made sure the bills added up to the last halfpenny.

She’d almost reached the end of the last column when a sharp rap fell on her closed door. Suppressing a most unladylike hiss, she grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a note of her total, then set aside her pencil and, closing the ledger, looked up and called, “Come in.”

The door opened, and three gentlemen filed in—or tried to; they had to leave the door open to have room enough to stand.

Sylvia’s heart sank as she recognized her callers. It had been over two years since she’d last seen the three together; all were figures in the local community and served on the Bristol Dock Company’s board—Mr. Forsythe, the mayor, Mr. Hoskins, one of the aldermen, and, lastly, Mr. Finch, secretary to the board.

Oh, no. The sight of Finch, in particular, did not bode well.

She forced a bright smile to her lips and adopted an expression she hoped appeared guileless. “Mr. Forsythe, Mr. Hoskins, and Mr. Finch.” She inclined her head to each. “Good morning, gentlemen. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

The three exchanged glances, then the mayor shuffled forward to take the single small chair that sat before the desk. The chair creaked faintly as his weight settled upon it, then he leaned forward and earnestly said, “My dear Miss Buckleberry, I’m sure you recall the terms of our agreement regarding your school using the premises on the Grove.”

Sylvia recalled the stipulations attached to the use of the old warehouse very well. However, she simply stared blankly at the mayor while her mind scrambled...

Surely not. The dockyards were in decline. Who on earth would want the old warehouse?

When the mayor seemed as disinclined to speak as she, she ventured, “I’m not sure I understand...” Always better to have them think her a dim-witted female; she was more likely to gain concessions that way.

Mr. Hoskins cleared his throat, then offered, “Our allowing the school to use the warehouse was, if you recall, on the condition that no business required the space—that is, no business that would pay to lease the place and create jobs for the local men.”

Sylvia had transferred her gaze to Hoskins; his words sent a chill lancing through her.

Finch shifted impatiently. “The truth, Miss Buckleberry, is that a new business has taken a lease on the warehouse, commencing from the beginning of next week. The school will need to vacate the premises by week’s end.”

Trust Finch to put it bluntly; his words were the blow Sylvia had suspected was coming the instant she’d seen his face. He’d always been a reluctant supporter, but whether it was her he didn’t approve of or the notion behind the school, she’d never determined.

“As we’re all well aware,” the mayor hurried to say, “the city is facing some difficulty regarding ongoing work for our many ship workers and dockworkers. It’s not a crisis, per se, but...well, we can’t afford to turn any such business away.”

Sylvia blinked. “Surely there are other warehouses?”

“Not of the sort this company needs. Not on our docks,” Mr. Hoskins informed her. “And while we realize this must come as an unwelcome surprise, we’re sure you’ll agree that it’s critically important to accommodate the sort of businesses who can hire the men otherwise unemployed—men like the parents of your pupils.”

“Sad though I am to say it, Miss Buckleberry,” the mayor went on, “jobs for the fathers must take precedence over teaching the sons.”

Sylvia knew the situation in the city, especially on the docks. In the circumstances, she couldn’t argue.

“Besides,” Finch said, “as I understand it, the end purpose of teaching the boys is to enable them to get jobs, but if there are no jobs, then what is the point of schools such as yours?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that the school wasn’t “hers,” yet it didn’t really matter; Finch was correct.

Reluctantly, she inclined her head, accepting if not exactly agreeing. She focused on the mayor. “You say we must be out of the warehouse by Friday. I’m left facing the question of where the school is to go.” She arched her brows and, with her gaze, included all three men. “Do you have any suggestions, gentlemen?”

Even Finch had the grace to look sheepish—or at least as sheepish as he could.

“Sadly, I don’t.” The mayor shifted on the chair, eliciting a protesting creak.

“If I hear of any possible location,” Mr. Hoskins said, “I will immediately let you know.”

“There is no other suitable property on the company’s books,” Finch stated.

The mayor hauled out his fob watch and looked at it. “Good gracious! Is that the time?” Tucking the watch back into his waistcoat pocket, he rose and essayed a commiserating smile. “The Dock Company regrets the impact on the school, my dear, but we cannot be other than pleased to welcome a new business to our docks.”

She was forced to murmur appropriate phrases as the men took their leave.

As the door closed behind them, she slumped back in her chair.

Of all the potential disasters...

After two years at the warehouse and given the draining of work from the docks, she’d assumed the school’s use of the premises was secure.

What am I going to do?

The sounds of a busy morning reached her through the thin glass at her back; horses crisply clopping down the streets, the sound of hurrying footsteps on the pavements, the occasional hailing of a hackney—people rushing about their business. Yet inside her office, her brain seemed to have slowed.

Finch hadn’t been entirely in error—the school was effectively hers. Her dream, her creation—her purpose in life.

After having shared a London Season with her distant cousin and close friend, Felicia Throgmorton, during which neither of them had taken, Sylvia and Felicia both had seen enough of ton life to be quite certain that their futures lay outside that gilded circle.

For Felicia, her “what else?” had been obvious; she’d had an inventor father and inventor brother to keep house for, to corral, steer, and anchor. Admittedly, Felicia had recently married—to a member of the nobility, no less—but she’d met Randolph Cavanaugh at her home, and as Sylvia understood it, neither had any great ambition to waltz in the ton; their interests lay elsewhere, namely in inventions and investing, and Sylvia had to admit that a life at Rand’s side would suit Felicia to the ground.

Sylvia, however, hadn’t been needed at home. Her widowed father, Reverend Buckleberry, held a comfortable living at Saltford, between Bristol and Bath, and had a highly efficient housekeeper to keep him in line and see to all his needs. Her father was a hearty, active soul, deeply engaged with his parish; he hadn’t needed Sylvia to stand by his side.

After returning from London, Sylvia had spent a wasted year at the vicarage, trying to find a purpose to devote herself to. No gentleman had ever tempted her to consider marriage, and somewhere along the way, she’d set aside all dreams of a home and family of her own. She felt perfectly certain that particular option was never going to come her way.

But with marriage off her table, she’d needed some other occupation—something to which to devote her mind, heart, and considerable organizational talents. But with no formal training in anything beyond the usual subjects deemed suitable for young ladies and no fervent obsession to guide her, she’d all but despaired of finding any project with which to occupy her days.

She’d been close to falling into a dejected funk when her father’s close friend the Bishop of Bath and Wells had called at Saltford to spend a few days discussing parish matters with her father, and she’d overheard the bishop bewailing the fact that, despite pressure from the upper levels of both church and state, in Bristol, as yet no progress had been made on establishing a school for the underclass—specifically, for boys whose fathers worked on the docks and in the associated shipyards.

That had been her call to arms—her epiphany when a light had shone from above and illuminated the right path forward.

With the bishop’s and her father’s support, she’d enlisted the aid of the Dean of Christ Church in Bristol—another of her father’s old friends—and, by sheer force of will and personality, had convinced the Christ Church Parish Council to back the establishment of such a school. The parish had agreed to fund the salary for two teachers and an assistant as well as paying for all sundry items such as books, chalks, and slates.

But the council’s one stipulation had been that they couldn’t afford to pay the rent for premises; they had made their offer of funds conditional on a suitable venue being donated free of charge.

Sylvia suspected the elders on the council had thought that stipulation would prove an insurmountable hurdle, but having noticed the empty warehouse facing the Grove and understanding that dockside business was ebbing from the city, she’d petitioned the Dock Company board to grant the school the right to use the warehouse free of charge.

Of course, first, she’d made a point of meeting each of the wives of the gentlemen on the board—at morning teas, at the city library, and at the salon of the city’s most-favored modiste. By dint of casting the school as a socially desirable charity—one the city should support in order to bolster its credentials as a civilized place—she’d enlisted the support of sufficient ladies so that when she’d gone before the board and made her case, she’d been fairly certain of success.

But now that she—the school—had lost the use of the warehouse, and the Dock Company didn’t have another building the school might use...

Without premises donated by some similar entity, the school would not survive.

The thought of the school closing curdled her stomach. She might have started the school as a way to occupy herself, but it had become the obsession she hadn’t previously had. Bad enough that she couldn’t imagine how she would fill her days without it, but now there was far more at stake than that; under her guidance, the teachers and pupils—all seventeen currently attending—had grown into a remarkably engaged group. The pupils attended because they wanted to—because they’d developed a thirst for knowledge and had taken to heart her oft-repeated litany that education was the pathway to their future.

The pupils were committed, the teachers even more so. University-trained, both were devoted educators, as was their less-qualified but equally dedicated assistant.

Sylvia had worked for two and more years to get the school to where it was, and it now delivered something vital for the pupils, the teachers, and, indeed, the city itself—just as she’d told the board members’ wives all those months ago.

She’d succeeded, and all had been running so smoothly...

She stared at the door, then set her chin. “I am not going to allow the school to close.”

That was the first decision—the one from which all else would stem.

“I need to find new premises that someone will donate—I did that once, and I can do it again.” It would be up to her to pull the school’s irons out of the fire. Although the school operated under the aegis of the Dean, from the start, their understanding had been that the school was hers to manage. It was her challenge; there was no one else to act as the school’s champion. That was her role—the role she’d fought for.

“Just as I’m going to fight through this.” Lips thinning, eyes narrowing, she considered her options. Staring at the door, she muttered, “So...what can I do?”

CHAPTER 2

There was one thing Sylvia wasn’t prepared to do, and that was give up. The following morning, she strode briskly along King Street, her goal the Dock Company offices on Broad Quay.

The previous day, after the Dock Company directors had dropped their bombshell and shattered her peace of mind, she’d gathered herself and her thoughts and had sought an urgent meeting with the Dean, he under whose auspices her school for dockyard boys had been created. Although the Dean had been, as ever, sympathetic and supportive, he hadn’t had any suggestions to make as to who she might approach to secure new premises for the school.

That meeting had been followed hours later by another with the parish council, the previous evening being the night of the council’s regular weekly conference. The outcome had been less than satisfactory—indeed, close to horrifying—which had only hardened her resolve.

Depressingly, between informing the Dean and, later, the parish council of the unexpected change in the school’s circumstances, she’d felt compelled to visit the school and inform the staff and students that, due to unforeseen events, it was possible that the school might have to close for a week or so after the end of the week. Unsurprisingly, her announcement had caused dismay and consternation, but better they heard it from her than via the dockside rumor mill. She’d done her best to allay everyone’s concerns, reassuring them all that if it came to a closure, it would only last until new premises were secured, yet the expressions haunting so many of the students—the anxiety etched on their young faces—had clutched at her heart.

They weren’t her children, and she didn’t think of them as such, but she knew each and every one now, knew their stories, their families, and, in most cases, their hopes and dreams, and felt an almost-parental responsibility for each boy.

Most had had to fight and win battles of their own to be allowed to attend regularly rather than find whatever work they could; each of the seventeen regular pupils had had to gain the support of their family, and given the current lack of prosperity on the Bristol docks, that had been a feat in itself.

She was determined not to let them—and the teachers and assistant—down. She would find a place—would find someone willing to donate either a venue or the rent for one.

She had to—and quickly—or the parish council would redirect the school’s funds to some other worthy cause.

While none of the council members had had any advice to offer regarding where she might find new premises for the school, they had made it clear, albeit gently, that as the council could not afford to rent such premises itself, if appropriate donated space was not forthcoming, the council would have to withdraw all funding. As the chairman had explained, there simply wasn’t sufficient money in the parish coffers to support a nonfunctioning school; in the current climate, the parish had too many other calls on its funds.

She’d left that meeting with a hideous sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. But after a night of tossing and turning and, in between bouts of sleep, evaluating increasingly fanciful options, she’d woken with a start—and a rather bold, certainly desperate, but possible way forward clear in her mind.

Hence her impending visit to the Dock Company offices.

On reaching the end of King Street, she turned right into Broad Quay. The Dock Company offices faced the Frome and were quite grand, with a semicircular set of steps leading up to a pair of glossy, green-painted doors with glass panels bearing the company’s name and logo inset into each. Sylvia pushed on the brass handle and walked briskly into the tiled foyer. Having been to the building before, she didn’t pause but continued to the stairs at the end of the foyer and went up to the first floor.

There, she rapped peremptorily on the door facing the stairs. On hearing a somewhat testy “Come,” she opened the door and walked inside.

She fixed the black-suited figure behind the desk with an uncompromising gaze. “Good morning, Mr. Finch.”

Finch didn’t look pleased but, nevertheless, got to his feet, returning her greeting with a curt nod. “Miss Buckleberry. I do hope you aren’t here to tell me that there will be any difficulty over the school vacating the warehouse.”

Sylvia allowed her gaze to rest heavily on Finch until he grew restless and started fingering the buttons on his coat. Then she simply said, “No. I’m here to inquire as to the name of the new tenant and where I may find him.”

Slowly, Finch blinked. “Ah...why do you need such information?”

Sylvia smiled as innocently as she could. “I merely wish to ask if he—presumably having recently surveyed the available warehouses around the docks—has any information on empty premises the school might be able to lease.” That would be her opening question, but she doubted Finch would approve of what else she intended asking the new tenant, much less the manner in which she intended to ask.

“Ah. I see.” Finch appeared to be considering telling her, but then he refocused on her face, and his expression grew stern. “I’m afraid, Miss Buckleberry, that without the gentleman’s permission, I am unable to share such information—it might be seen as a breach of trust.”

Sylvia fought to keep exasperation from her face and, instead, heaved a put-upon sigh. “Mr. Finch, surely you can see that in order to ensure the school removes as required—”

His face turning to granite, Finch held up a hand. “Miss Buckleberry, I do hope you aren’t thinking to sway me by suggesting the school might not be out of the warehouse by Friday afternoon at the latest.”

Sylvia managed not to glare, but it was a near-run thing. Lips firming, she replied, “Of course not. I’m merely attempting to do the best for the school and locate new premises—”

“As I am endeavoring to do what’s best for the Dock Company.” Finch held her gaze. “I’m glad we understand each other, Miss Buckleberry.”

Sylvia stared at the annoying man and inwardly conceded; he’d dug in his heels and she would get nothing from him. That decided, she favored him with a brief nod, turned, and walked to the still-open door. With her hand on the knob, she glanced back and said, “Normally, I would thank you for your help, sir, but sadly, you’ve been no help at all.”

She walked out and shut the door with a definite click.

She swept down the stairs, through the front doors, down the steps, and halted on the quay. “Men!”

The muffled exclamation and her exasperated expression drew a few looks from passersby. She ignored them and focused on her goal.

How was she to learn the identity of the new tenant?

Finch had said gentleman, singular; that was the only piece of helpful information he’d dropped. She hadn’t yet decided how, precisely, she would approach the new tenant—whether she would opt for engagement and appeal to his better social nature or if she would play on his guilt over ousting the school. She would make that decision when she faced him, as she was determined to do. One way or another, she intended to beard the new tenant, explain matters in simple terms, and see if she could extract some degree of help from that quarter.

Having tapped all those with whom she was familiar, those who knew enough to appreciate her cause, and got nowhere, she was willing to approach the one player in the drama she didn’t know—the newcomer to the docks.

The irony in that hadn’t escaped her; in lieu of gaining help from any locals for a project to further local good, she was seeking assistance from a stranger.

How can I find him?

No inspiration struck. Frowning, she turned south, slowly walking back along Broad Quay. She’d taken only a few paces when, glancing ahead, she saw men gathered in groups in front of a labor exchange.

She halted. The exchanges were how men out of work learned of new jobs on the docks and elsewhere. Several such exchanges were scattered around the city, but the one before her, on the corner of Currant Lane and the narrower quay that ran along the eastern bank of the Frome, was the closest to the warehouse.

If the new tenant needed to hire workers, then the Currant Lane exchange was where he would post his notices.

Slowly, Sylvia smiled, then she stepped out more confidently, heading for the door of the labor exchange.

* * *

“How can I help you, miss?” The young clerk behind the counter looked at Sylvia uncertainly; she wasn’t the usual sort of client who appeared in front of him.

She smiled. “You’re Elroy’s brother, aren’t you?”

The clerk blinked, then his eyes widened. “Oh—you’re the school lady.” The clerk relaxed. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t recognize you at first. Have you come to list a job?”

“No, sadly, but I wondered if you might be able to help me.”

“If I can, I will.” The clerk puffed out his thin chest. “What is it you need help with?”

“I’m trying to learn the name of the businessman who’s taken the lease on the warehouse the school’s been using. It’s a new business coming to town, so I’m sure he’ll have listed at least a few positions with this office.”

“Oh.” Now the clerk looked wary. His eyes shifted to the older man serving others farther along the counter. Then the clerk leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t know as how I can, miss. That sort of information is only given to those who need to know—we don’t even tell the men we send who they’ll be speaking to, who listed the position. We only give out the details of the position and where to apply.”

Sylvia frowned. “Surely you give out the name of the business?”

“Oh. Yes—we do that. The gentleman I think you’re after posted several positions for Cavanaugh Yachts.”

For an instant, Sylvia thought bells were ringing, distorting her hearing. “Cavanaugh Yachts?”

The clerk looked at her anxiously. “Are you all right, miss?”

She waved aside his concern. There were three Cavanaugh brothers—four if you counted the marquess, but this man couldn’t be he. And it was unlikely to be Rand, either, and Godfrey was surely too young...

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Tell me,” she said, not truly seeing the clerk anymore but a tall man in a morning suit. “Was this gentleman on the tallish side, with wide shoulders and brown hair...” She cast about for words to describe the aura that hung about her nemesis. “And looked to be the sort of gentleman who would laugh in the devil’s face?”

Refocusing on the clerk, she saw he was frowning.

“Actually,” Elroy’s brother said, “now I think of it, there were two of them. Two gentlemen who came in at different times, but hiring for the same business. The first was tall and thin, lanky-like, and he had dark brown hair, but the other gent—the one who listed a position for a secretary this morning—he was like you said.” The clerk nodded earnestly. “Had just such an air about him, you know?”

Sylvia knew all about the airs affected by Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Her wits were reeling, but she seized the straw the clerk had just offered her. “If I wanted to apply for the position of secretary to Cavanaugh Yachts, where would I go?”

The answer was a recently completed building in King Street. Sylvia thanked the clerk, then left the exchange and, gaze leveled and purpose in her stride, walked briskly toward King Street, an explosive mix of determination and rising anger simmering in her veins.

* * *

Kit stood in his inner office and studied the plans spread on the desk before him. Wayland must have been up half the night drawing the detailed sketches, but he’d been bright-eyed and eager when he’d dropped off the plans ten minutes ago with strict instructions that he expected Kit to have checked and approved them by the time Wayland called back in the early afternoon.

“I want to order the timber today,” Wayland had said. “It’ll take at least a day, maybe more, to fill such an order, and I don’t want to find that we’re still waiting on Monday.”

Kit had agreed. While Wayland went off to check at the labor exchange to see who had replied to their various listings, Kit had settled to peruse the plans.

The silence about him impinged; it was not what he was used to. The building was newly completed and, thus far, only partially let; the offices to either side lay empty. In addition, the builders had used thicker glass in the windows, which muted the sounds of the traffic along King Street to a distant rumble.

He glanced up—through the doorway to the outer office; he’d left the door between open so he could see the corridor door. He needed to find a secretary; he’d put up a listing that morning, but doubted anything would come of it for at least a few days. The clerk at the labor exchange had said he would circulate the listing to the exchanges in those parts of the city more likely to harbor a suitable female.

Until he hired someone, he was on his own, yet to his mind, getting the Cavanaugh Yachts workshop functional as soon as possible had to remain his pre-eminent goal.

While approving Wayland’s design was easy enough, checking his figures required concentration; marshaling his, Kit started on the dimensions of the office closer to the warehouse door, matching them with Wayland’s suggested timber frame.

Someone hammered on the outer door.

Startled, Kit looked up—in time to see the door flung open and a neatly dressed lady storm in.

She halted, saw him, and skewered him with a scorching glare.

Tall, with a willowy figure and svelte curves, garbed in a violet-blue walking dress over a white silk blouse, her wheat-blond hair drawn back from an arresting face carved from alabaster—

Recognition slammed into him and scrambled his brain.

Sylvia Buckleberry?

At his stupefied reaction, her eyes narrowed even further. She whirled and shut the door, then, with a furious swishing of skirts, marched through the outer office.

She stepped into his inner sanctum and let fly. “I might have known!” Her tone dripped acid; her bosom swelled as she drew breath. “Of all the cities in England, you had to choose this one, and, of course, you think nothing of trampling over whomever and whatever stands in your way.” She locked her eyes on his as she halted on the other side of the desk, then dramatically flung her arms wide. “I can just imagine the reactions of the Dock Company directors. ‘Yes, my lord. No, my lord. Three bags full, my lord.’” Indigo sparks flared in the periwinkle-blue of her eyes. Her lush lips set in a thin line, she glared at him accusingly. “I’m quite sure that’s how it went.”

She railed on, but while Kit’s brain registered her words, he wasn’t really listening.

Instead, he could only stare, grappling to make sense of the transformation of Sylvia Buckleberry that had manifested before him.

The first and last time he’d seen her—just weeks ago at Rand’s wedding, where, courtesy of Sylvia being one of Felicia’s bridesmaids and Kit being one of Rand’s groomsmen, Kit had been Sylvia’s partner—she’d treated him to a very effective cold shoulder. More, she’d given every indication of being a rigidly buttoned-down, haughtily dismissive, and chillingly distant sort of lady.

The lady before him was anything but.

This Sylvia Buckleberry was all fire and passion and life.

Blatantly driven by determination and willpower, she was a force of nature done up in a very attractive package.

On an intellectual level, he was aware that he’d noticed her physical attributes before, but at the time, their impact had been negated by her attitude. Now, however, this Sylvia Buckleberry was fixing his attention in a much more avid way.

She had, quite literally, transfixed his senses and scattered his wits.

And his lack of response to her tirade was making her seethe.

The glare she leveled at him was all hellfire and brimstone. “I’m well aware that London rakes cannot be expected to care in the slightest over a dockyard school, but why couldn’t you remain in London? Why did you have to come here and spoil everything? Do you have any notion of how much damage you’re likely to do to the fabric of local society?”

Those words finally penetrated the haze fogging his brain. He blinked, then frowned. “What the devil are you accusing me of?”

The look she bent on him was all dismissive scorn. “As if you don’t know.”

His own temper rising, he narrowed his eyes back. “I have absolutely no idea—” He broke off as several facts coalesced in his brain, and he realized what the Dock Company men hadn’t told him. “Wait.” He held up a hand as he rapidly replayed various exchanges, and suspicion hardened to fact. He refocused on her. “The charity using the warehouse is a school?”

“Yes!” Fists clenched, Sylvia wanted to rage on, but the look on his face—the open chagrin—took the wind from her sails.

It was patently obvious that he hadn’t known his leasing of the warehouse meant the eviction of a school. He could be acting, but she didn’t think he was—that he would bother. She frowned. “The Dock Company didn’t tell you?”

“No. They didn’t.” The words were clipped and boded ill for whomever had omitted to mention the fact. “Indeed, they took great care to avoid doing so.”

She wanted to cling to her anger, to the strength of the fury that anger had converted to during the short walk to his office, but if he hadn’t known about the school...

Aside from all else, it seemed that, instead of being the indolent, care-for-naught hedonist she’d labeled him, he was actually trying to establish a business that would bring jobs to the struggling docklands.

While such an action was the last thing she would have expected of him, the evidence was too definite to doubt.

Her anger drained in a rush, taking her righteousness with it. Her shoulders fell; dejection loomed.

She was vaguely aware of his sharp gaze on her face, then he waved her to one of the chairs angled before the desk.

“Please—sit down. I need to know more about this school.”

Kit waited until she’d subsided onto the chair, then drew up the admiral’s chair he’d earlier pushed back and sat. Her expression had shuttered, her attention seemingly turned inward—to him, her retreat felt like the withdrawing of a source of warmth. But having once laid eyes on the real Sylvia Buckleberry, he wasn’t about to let her hide away behind a wall of chilly disdain. He caught her eyes. “Tell me all—all about this school.”

Frowning faintly, she hesitated, but then complied, describing the establishment of the school under the auspices of the Dean of Christ Church and the funding she’d secured from the parish council on condition that the premises for the school were found free of cost. “Two years ago, the only vacant building that was suitable was the old warehouse on the Grove—our requirements are rather specific in that the location of the school must be within walking distance of the boys’ homes. Given the boys are from dockworking and shipyard families, that means somewhere along the docks or close by, but other than on the docks themselves, the alternatives are the inner city, which is generally unsuitable, or more well-to-do areas, which are unaffordable.” She paused to draw breath, then went on, “With the help of their wives, I managed to convince the Dock Company board to allow the school to use the old warehouse. The secretary, Finch, was never in favor, but I managed to arrange sufficient votes to carry the day.

“So we set up with two teachers and an assistant and have gathered seventeen long-term pupils. We usually get a handful of new pupils each year, and once we’ve trained the boys, they should be able to get jobs in the various offices in the city.”

She met his gaze. “It’s taken time to overcome the suspicions of the dockyard families especially—they don’t like to think that their boys might need different training from their fathers. Or that, if schooled, the sons might well earn more than their fathers. These past few months have been more settled, and we all thought things were rolling along well...and now this.” She waved a hand in a helpless gesture and looked away. “We have no grounds on which to protest our eviction—and, indeed, all will welcome a new business that promises more jobs for ship workers.” She paused, her frowning gaze fixed past his shoulder, then said, “It’s not us leaving the warehouse that’s the crux of the problem—the finding and securing of new premises is.”

She straightened on the chair, her expressive face attesting to a gathering of inner strength. “I’ve already asked the Dean and the parish council, and the representatives of the Dock Company, too, but no one could suggest any other group or company who have a suitable space that they might possibly allow the school to use.”

When she fell silent, he hesitated, but he needed to know all of it. “And if you don’t find new premises immediately?”

She sighed. “If I haven’t found new premises by the end of the week, I’ll have to close the school—at least temporarily. But the parish council has informed me that they will not be able to continue funding if the school isn’t functioning.”

She was facing the eradication of all she’d accomplished over the past two years.

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “The worst part of that is how it will affect the boys. The seventeen who attend have grown so much in confidence, but this will set them back. If I’m forced to close the school, even if only for a week, I suspect we’ll lose at least some of them. Longer than a week, and we might lose them all and have to start all over again, winning them and their families over to the idea that an education is the best way to secure their future.”

Her belief in that concept, her commitment to that ideal, and her devotion to the dockyard brats for whom she’d fought to get schooling was evident in her tone, her expression, her anxiety, and her imminent despondency.

Kit knew about personal obsession; he could relate.

He stirred, rapidly reviewing an idea that had taken shape as she’d spoken; one of his business strengths lay in recognizing opportunity when it came his way and seizing it. Of course, his first impulse had been to offer to help her, purely for her sake, but he knew how prickly she could become, and he wanted to avoid giving her any excuse to revert to her previous behavior with him—to poker up and make everything harder. Painting his interest as entirely self-serving would play into her preconceived notions of his character, avoiding the simple truth that he enjoyed helping people and would have helped her regardless.

“As it happens,” he said, and somewhat surprised, she raised her head and looked at him, “I believe that I—or rather, Cavanaugh Yachts—might be able to assist.” He hesitated for only a second, then leaned his forearms on the desk and fixed his gaze on her eyes. “I’ll be absolutely frank. I’m new to the city, and with a business to get off the ground, I need to establish my bona fides, to establish Cavanaugh Yachts as a trustworthy employer and, moreover, one seeking to put down roots and involve itself in the community—to signal that we’re here for the long haul. It sounds as if the boys attending your school come from precisely the subset of families from which my business will be seeking to attract workers. To my way of thinking, if I fund the rent for not just another venue but a better venue for the school, that will go a substantial way toward establishing the Cavanaugh name among the dockworkers and shipyard families.”

She blinked at him. “You’re prepared to do that?”

“Yes.” To drive his excuse home, he added, “Your pupils will have fathers, older brothers, uncles, and cousins, some of whom will be the sort of men I and my partner need to hire. Funding your school is an excellent way to forge a link with such craftsmen.”

She looked much struck. “I hadn’t thought of that—of that angle.”

He smiled, all teeth. “Well, you’ve already found a sponsor, so you won’t need to make the argument to anyone else. My one stipulation—and I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the circumstances, it’s reasonable—is that I view and approve the new venue. Indeed, I’ll be happy to assist with negotiating the lease, and I’m prepared to stand as guarantor if required.”

Of course, such a stipulation would also ensure that he got to spend more time with this new, much improved, and utterly fascinating Miss Buckleberry.

Sylvia stared at him and tried not to gape. His gaze remained steady, and his lips were slightly curved. He looked quite pleased with himself, which gave her pause—but only for a second. He’d just offered her all—and more than—she’d hoped to gain from the owner of the business taking over the warehouse. And wonder of wonders, he seemed inclined to take an active interest, and regardless of her view of him and his lordly status, that would unquestionably help the school’s standing with the Dean and the parish council—let alone the mayor.

Yet as he sat behind his desk—at a distance of a yard or more—and patiently waited for her to accept his offer, her unwanted reactions to him, initially overridden by her fury, inexorably rose with every breath, until she could almost feel physical awareness crawling over her skin. Significantly taller than she, broad shouldered and vigorous, with ruffled hair of a rich mid-brown, warm, light brown eyes, an austere and uncompromisingly patrician cast to his features, and sensual lips, from the first instant she’d set eyes on him, he’d been the visual embodiment of her fantasy gentleman. Just the sight of him affected her as no other man ever had. That said, she’d dealt with her silly sensitivity throughout the full day of Felicia’s wedding, had successfully suppressed and concealed it. Surely she could do the same again?

Yet now, his impact on her senses and her involuntary response seemed heightened—more intense. Possibly because she was dealing with the real man—one significantly more real than the rake who haunted her dreams—and without the predictable framework of a wedding and reception to act as a formal structure, directing and defining their interactions.

Here, now, they were interacting freely, adult to adult, with no screens, no masks. No façades.

Letting the silence stretch, she eyed him assessingly. She would dearly love to retreat to the chilly reserve she’d previously maintained with him—infinitely safer, without a shadow of a doubt—but the intent look in his caramel eyes and that faint suggestion of a smile about his lips gave warning that she would be unwise to attempt it; barging into his office in full and furious flight had shattered the mask she’d worn before, and no amount of acting was going to patch it back together.

So. Her response to his proposition ultimately hinged on the question of how much she was willing to give—to risk—to ensure the continuation of the school.

No question, when all was said and done.

He’d shown not the slightest sign of being discomfited by her prolonged scrutiny. Still holding his gaze, she tipped her chin higher. “How do you suggest we proceed?”

A tacit acceptance, one, it appeared, he was perfectly willing to seize. He glanced at the plans scattered over the desk. “We want to begin fitting out the warehouse on Monday—so as we would prefer not to have to close the school, even for a few days, we should move quickly to secure new premises.” He tipped his head at the plans. “I have to finish checking these and authorize them by early afternoon. Also, I don’t know the city well.”

He met her gaze and faintly arched his brows. “Might I suggest you make inquiries as to available and suitable buildings to lease—preferably in a better part of town than the warehouse, yet still within easy reach for the boys? Then you and I can meet here—shall we say at three?—and together, we can go and view the possibilities and make our choice.”

She had a sneaking suspicion that, somewhere in all this, she was being...not manipulated but steered. Yet she had no reason to even quibble with anything he’d suggested. Mentally throwing her hands in the air—she was about to willingly make a deal with her personal devil—she inclined her head with what grace she could muster. “Thank you. I’ll assemble a list of suitable premises for lease and return here at three o’clock.”

Gripping her reticule, she rose, bringing him to his feet—which made her stupid senses leap. Hurriedly, she waved him back to his chair. “I know the way out. I’ll see you later.”

With that, she turned and—metaphorically, at least—fled.

Kit watched her go. Only after she’d closed the outer door did he allow a smile of equal parts satisfaction and anticipation to curve his lips.

CHAPTER 3

At three o’clock that afternoon, Sylvia found Kit Cavanaugh waiting on the steps of the building housing his office. He smiled as she approached, and her pulse fluttered.

Studiously ignoring that and the inexorable tightening about her lungs, she briskly nodded as she halted beside him. She made a production of consulting the list she held in one hand, then announced, “Our first possibility lies in Puddle Avenue.” She swiveled and pointed to the south. “It’s that way—off Queen Square.”

With a graceful gesture, he waved her forward. “Lead on.”

She started walking, and he fell in beside her, adjusting his long strides to her slightly shorter ones. While in the company of other women and, indeed, most men, she felt on the tallish side, with him, her head barely cleared his chin, leaving her feeling...more feminine than usual. She was glad he made no attempt to take her arm; she wasn’t sure what she would do if he tried. Just walking beside him was entirely close enough; her senses were skittering as it was.

She drew in a breath—one rather too restricted—and reminded herself that she would need to keep her wits about her, especially now she’d been forced to drop her previous haughty mask.

They crossed to the south side of King Street and took to the eastern pavement of Princes Street. In an attempt to keep her mind from wandering his way, she glanced down at the list she’d prepared for this excursion. On leaving their earlier meeting, she’d visited several leasing companies. Through them, she’d identified a total of eight presently untenanted buildings that lay within the area the boys could reach and that sounded large enough to house the school.

She’d listed the buildings in order of desirability based on her general knowledge of location, but as she had no way by which to gauge Cavanaugh’s commitment—how much he was truly willing to commit—she’d decided to start at the bottom of the list.

They reached the corner of Puddle Avenue and paused. She looked up, searching for numbers on the nearer buildings. “It’s number fifteen.”

She glanced at his face; his expression was impassive, but she sensed he wasn’t impressed with Puddle Avenue.

Nevertheless, he gestured her onward and kept pace beside her as she walked slowly along the street.

Number 15 Puddle Avenue proved to be a run-down building wedged between two warehouses; the flanking buildings appeared to be holding Number 15 up. What paint still clung to its timber facing was peeling away in curls, and there were visible cracks in the stone foundations.

She cleared her throat. “Obviously, I shouldn’t have relied on the property manager’s description.”

Cavanaugh grunted. “Obviously not.” His features were hard as his gaze swept the exterior of the building. Then he turned his head and met her gaze. “Where’s the next place?”

* * *

The hall off Bell Lane was only marginally better than the Puddle Avenue building.

Regardless, Kit felt compelled to look inside before passing judgment, and the feisty Miss Buckleberry agreed—although she hung back as, after pushing through the slightly warped door, he walked into the musty space.

He stopped two paces in, looked around, then turned and walked back to where she stood on the threshold.

Jaw firming, he met her eyes. “Next?”

* * *

The third place she took him to was, he supposed, a possible venue for the school. At a stretch. But the hall was dark, overshadowed by taller buildings on either side and on the other side of the narrow street, and a telltale odor of mildew and mold rose from the ancient lining boards, leaving him in little doubt that the timbers behind were rotting.

The notion of setting young boys to work through their days in such surroundings...he simply couldn’t see it.

He glanced at Sylvia. She’d been watching him—his face—but had glanced down at her list of potential properties.

On impulse, Kit reached out and, with a quick tug, filched the list from her gloved fingers.

She sucked in a breath, but then pressed her lips tightly together and clasped her hands before her.

Kit focused on the list. “There has to be somewhere better.”

He ran his gaze down the entries and, despite his lack of knowledge of Bristol, realized there definitely was. From the addresses, it appeared that the inestimable Miss Buckleberry had started at the bottom of her list of possible places...

He could guess why—she wasn’t sure he would sponsor the school properly.

For a second, he considered being annoyed about that, but then decided that, with a female like Sylvia Buckleberry, seeing would be believing.

His expression impassive, he held out the list. “Let’s look at the place in Trinity Street.”

If she was surprised, she hid it well. Taking back the list, she said, “I have to warn you that the Trinity Street property is the most expensive option. It’s owned by St. Augustine’s Abbey, and the rent is...well, in keeping with that and the location, which is on a street between the Abbey and the Frome.”

Kit gave a noncommittal shrug. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I can afford it, and such a location—and landlord—sounds much more like the sort of accommodation I’d want a school I was sponsoring to have.”

Facing her, he waved imperiously to the door. “I suggest we go directly there.”

Although her gaze stated she was still uncertain, she allowed him to usher her outside.

* * *

It was close to five o’clock when they reached Trinity Street, but the instant they halted outside the old hall, Kit felt certain they’d found the right place. Judging by the expression on Sylvia’s face as she stood beside him and scanned the front façade, she thought the same.

In keeping with the Augustinian creed, the building had few ornate features. Built of stone and weathered oak, it was solid and functional—the sort of place that would easily withstand the rigors of hosting a school. Although he’d gone to Eton, Kit doubted that boys whose fathers worked on the docks would be any less vigorous than scions of the nobility.

A small tiled porch protected the oak door. Without thinking, Kit touched his palm to the back of Sylvia’s waist, urging her toward the porch steps. She froze for a fraction of a second, but then, with a rather tense inclination of her head, walked forward and climbed the three steps to the porch.

After fishing in her reticule for the key, she unlocked the door and led the way inside.

Kit followed her into a comfortable space, well-lit despite the time of day, with the last rays of the westering sun pouring through high, clerestory windows. The floor was well-worn oak, smooth and clean. Kit glanced around. “No drafts.”

Sylvia had halted in the middle of the good-sized hall. “That will make a huge difference in winter.”

Kit nodded at the three small fireplaces built into the side walls. “And there’s those, too.”

Sinking his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he started on a circuit of the hall—following Sylvia as she did the same. They poked their heads into the small kitchen at the rear of the hall.

“This will be an added boon,” Sylvia said, and he could hear the building excitement in her voice.

He hid a smile and ambled at her heels as she proceeded to open the back door. He looked out over her head at the decent-looking privy standing in the small, cobbled rear yard.

Everything was neat and clean—and solid and enduring.

Sylvia shut and locked the back door, then turned and faced him; he had to wonder if she knew her hopes were shining in her eyes. “This will do admirably,” she said.

He almost looked to see if she’d crossed her fingers.

He contented himself with an easy smile and an acquiescing nod. “How much is the rent?”

Sylvia held her breath; now she’d seen inside the hall, it was even more perfect than the outside had promised. It would be a huge improvement over their current quarters. She could so easily see the boys and the school prospering here, she was almost reluctant to tell him how much it would cost for fear of hearing him say it was too expensive.

But...she cleared her throat, forced herself to meet his eyes, and stated the price the Abbey’s prior, sympathetic to her and the school’s plight, had named.

Then she hurriedly added, “Unfortunately, that’s the lowest price the Abbey can accept, and it’s still significantly more than the second place on my list.”

She looked down at the list, still clutched in her hand—only to see Cavanaugh’s hand come into view. He closed his fingers—broad-tipped, strong fingers—about the edge of the paper and gently tugged. She watched the list slide from her grasp and wondered what he was thinking—what decision he’d made.

“I don’t believe we need to look at any other places.”

Hope leaping in her chest, she looked up and saw him tucking the list, now folded, into his pocket.

He glanced around. “This place is ideal, and the rent seems reasonable and fair.”

He brought his gaze back to her face and lightly arched his brows. “So who do we see about the lease?”

* * *

The following morning, Sylvia set out for the school, light of heart and eager to tell the teachers and students of their good fortune.

She was especially glad to be able to lift the pall of doubt and uncertainty that had descended on both staff and pupils when she’d told them of having to quit the warehouse. Indeed, she felt like skipping at the prospect.

The meeting with the prior, with Kit Cavanaugh by her side, had gone extremely well. Not only was the Abbey happy to have the hall put to such use, but the prior had gone so far as to suggest that if the school ever needed medical assistance, they could call on the Abbey’s infirmarian.

She was worldly enough to know that she and the school had Cavanaugh—Kit—to thank for that. He’d stood like a rock—a distinctly noble rock—at her back throughout the process of leasing the hall.

She hurried across the end of Bell Lane, then cut between buildings to reach the Grove. Looking ahead, she spied a tall, greatcoated figure leaning against the bole of a tree opposite the warehouse the school presently occupied.

She blinked and looked again, confirming that the figure was indeed Kit. He saw her, pushed away from the tree, and ambled to intercept her.

Was she surprised? She wasn’t sure she was. After all, at the end of their successful foray yesterday, in return for his help in getting the prior to commence the lease on the Trinity Street hall immediately, she’d agreed that the school would move premises today, allowing Kit and his men access to the warehouse tomorrow, a day earlier than they’d hoped.

He’d said he would notify the Dock Company, and she had no doubt he had—or would. He was efficient and effective—she would give him that.

He’d halted, waiting for her, and as she neared, she discovered an entirely spontaneous smile of greeting had taken up residence on her face. “Good morning. Have you come to help me break the news?”

Kit drank in that smile—the first sincere smile she’d ever bestowed on him. He returned it with an easy smile of his own, nothing to get her bristling. “Good morning to you—and no.” He glanced at the warehouse. “You can do the honors. I’ve come to lend a hand with moving the school.”

She blinked in surprise, and he couldn’t stop his smile from deepening. To hide it, he glanced vaguely around. “Do you know of any men we can hire to help?”

“Hire?”

From her tone, the notion hadn’t entered her head—probably because she wasn’t accustomed to having the wherewithal to pay for such help.

But after several seconds, she said, “The boys will help, of course. And some of them will have older brothers out of work and possibly fathers as well...”

He nodded. “We can ask.” He waved her on. “Let’s go in, and you can break the good news.”

Kit followed her through the door. He halted just inside. In his mind, he could already see the transformation of the space that he and Wayland had planned. While Wayland busied himself checking on his orders and interviewing men for the key role of foreman as well as hiring a small team of carpenters to make a start on their necessary alterations, Kit had elected to devote himself to ensuring that the school’s vacating of the warehouse went smoothly.

Ahead of him, Sylvia came to a halt before the two rows of desks that were now lined up across the warehouse floor. Two gentlemen—Kit judged them to be much of an age with himself—both neatly and conservatively dressed, had been standing before the desks, one to either side, addressing the boys before them; having heard Sylvia’s heels on the boards, they, along with their pupils, had turned their attention to her.

She tipped her head to each man. “Mr. Jellicoe. Mr. Cross. If I could have a moment of everyone’s time, I have an announcement to make.”

Her expression gave away her news—or at least, it’s nature; the looks on the boys’ faces as they stared at her could only be described as ones of rising hope.

Assured of everyone’s attention, her hands clasped before her, she stated, “Yesterday evening, courtesy of Lord Cavanaugh”—she glanced back at Kit, still standing just inside the door, gracefully waved in his direction, then turned back to her audience—“the lease on a hall in Trinity Street was secured for the school. We have new premises, and they are a great deal better than this warehouse.”

The cheer that erupted from the boys and staff matched the joy and relief that suffused their faces.

Several of the older boys thumped on their desks, and the others took up the drumbeat.

The teachers glanced at Kit, and he inclined his head to them, and they nodded politely in return. Then at a smiling word from Sylvia, both teachers turned back to their charges and waved them to silence.

Somewhat to Kit’s surprise, silence returned quite quickly.

Into it, Sylvia said, “Lord Cavanaugh is the owner of the business that has leased this warehouse, and once he learned of the school, he kindly agreed to fund the lease for our new school hall. In return, I agreed that we would move to our new hall today. I’m therefore declaring today a holiday—at least from your studies. However, I expect every one of you to assist us—me, Mr. Jellicoe, Mr. Cross, and Miss Meggs, too, once she comes in, and Lord Cavanaugh, who has come to help as well—to move all the school’s furniture, books, boards, slates, supplies, and all to our new hall.”

Wily Sylvia. Kit had already noted the curiosity that had flared in every boy’s face at the revelation that he was a lord; for such boys, nobles were a rarely encountered species. By mentioning that he would be helping with the move, Sylvia had ensured that every single boy would remain to do their part.

Eager agreement abounded, and when Sylvia asked if any of the boys had older male relatives who might be free to help for a price, five hands shot into the air.

Kit raised his voice. “You can tell anyone who agrees to help that the rate will be three shillings for the day.” That was the current rate for laborers on the docks.

The boys who’d raised their hands leapt to their feet.

Sylvia gave them leave to run home and ask and return to the warehouse promptly with anyone willing to help. The other boys she directed to start gathering their books and slates.

Kit walked forward, allowing the boys leaving free access to the door. They grinned at him as they passed, and some bobbed their heads and murmured, “Your lordship.”

Kit grinned back at them, which sent their grins even wider, then they were gone.

Jellicoe and Cross approached as Kit halted. He had no difficulty in pegging both as younger sons of the gentry who’d had to make their own way; from their families, they would have received a sound education, but little else.

Jellicoe held out his hand. “Thank you, my lord. We were fearing that the school would close, and that would have been the end for these boys’ educations.”

“Indeed.” Cross waited until Kit released Jellicoe’s hand to offer his own. “You might not realize it, but this is a very good deed you’ve done, my lord.”

Kit shifted, uncomfortable with the praise. “Don’t credit me with too much altruism, gentlemen—I wanted the warehouse as soon as possible and finding the school new premises seemed the easiest way to that goal.”

Neither Jellicoe nor Cross looked as if they believed him, and in truth, gaining the use of the warehouse early had never been Kit’s primary objective. Acknowledging that, he added, “However, I do support the notion of education for the masses, so I was happy to help in this way.” And seeing the transformation in the faces of the boys and the teachers had already been sufficient reward.

That, both teachers accepted. As Sylvia came to join them, they looked at her with an eagerness to rival their pupils’.

“How should we do this?” Cross asked.

Kit listened as Sylvia outlined a plan to move the heavier items first—the desks and the two blackboards; Kit assumed the latter had been brought in by the teachers—they hadn’t been there when he and Wayland had viewed the space.

“Once we have those arranged in the new hall,” Sylvia went on, “we can return here and ferry everything else across.” She paused, then added, “I don’t want the boys struggling with anything they might drop while they’re crossing the Frome.”

“No, indeed.” Jellicoe looked at the boys who had remained in the warehouse; they were busily emptying the desks and stacking books, slates, chalks, and papers on the tops. “We’ll need at least two trips for the smaller stuff, and depending on how many men turn up, at least two for the desks and boards. Even emptied, those desks are too unwieldy for any one man to manage on his own—even a dockyard navvy.”

Just then, a thin, faded older lady, gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, walked into the warehouse.

“Miss Meggs.” Sylvia went forward to greet her. “I’m relieved to say that we’ve had some excellent news.”

While Sylvia explained about the new school hall, bringing a relieved expression to Miss Meggs’s face, Jellicoe murmured, “Our assistant. She’s a good soul and handles the boys surprisingly well.”

Cross softly huffed. “I think the boys see her as a vague but doting aunt they need to take care of—which is not a bad thing.”

Jellicoe laughed softly. “I think she plays up to that—when it comes to organizing our lessons, she’s as sharp as a tack.”

Kit watched Sylvia animatedly explaining the school’s change in circumstances to the older woman. Their meeting with the prior the previous evening had gone much as he’d anticipated, with one major difference; the prior, Sylvia, and Kit had discussed various payment options, and, in the end, in order to avoid any future onus falling on Sylvia regarding the rent, they had agreed—Kit reluctantly—to put the lease in his name, with him making payments directly to the Abbey, rather than having Sylvia’s name on the lease, with him standing as formal guarantor, and the payments routed through her. While she’d been perfectly content with the arrangement, Kit had to wonder if she realized just how much at his mercy that left the school. Of course, he would never do anything untoward, like renege on payments or cancel the lease, but she didn’t know that. He’d ended with the distinct impression that Miss Sylvia Buckleberry, clergyman’s daughter, trusted too easily for her own good.

Except, of course, when it came to him, but he was working on that.

One of the boys who’d gone to fetch family members returned, towing his older brother by the sleeve. The pair were quickly followed by the other four boys with their willing elders in tow. Most weren’t fathers but older brothers and cousins, hale and strong from working on the docks. When all were assembled, they had twelve men, in addition to Jellicoe, Cross, and Kit himself.

Kit glanced at Sylvia, and she stepped forward. In a clear voice, she thanked the men for coming and outlined the proposed sequence of ferrying items to Trinity Street. “I’ll go ahead and open up the hall there. Please, before you leave the warehouse with anything, notify Miss Meggs”—Sylvia waved to the school assistant, who now stood by the warehouse door, board and pencil in hand—“so she can ensure that we successfully get everything to its new home.”

The men nodded readily.

One said, “We’re pleased to help, miss. But about our money...?”

Kit stepped forward. “Come to me at the end of the day for payment—at that time, I’ll be at the Trinity Street hall.” Kit ran his gaze over the boys and men alike. “And the end of our day is as soon as we clear this building and ferry everything to the new hall.”

The boys cheered, and the men looked eager to start lifting and carrying.

Kit waved them forward with the stipulation “Two to a desk. We don’t want any dropped and broken.”

The move got under way, with everyone in high good spirits. The men could easily handle a desk between two, and the boys loaded their arms with books and slates.

As Kit had suspected, Jellicoe and Cross folded the stands of the two big blackboards, then carefully set the boards into strap-like slings and set off, each carrying one of the boards slung on his back and the folded stand in his hands.

There was no spare man with whom Kit could partner. He looked around, amid the chaos of boys arguing over who should take what, trying to assess what item would be most useful for him to cart.

Sylvia had paused to speak with Miss Meggs and ensure that everyone was having their loads noted. Kit lifted a pile of slates, which was surprisingly heavy; wrapping his arms about the stack, he hoisted it and joined Sylvia as—apparently realizing how many men and desks had already passed out of the warehouse on their way to Trinity Street—she somewhat distractedly farewelled Miss Meggs. Seeing Kit with the slates, she waved him on and bent to lift a smaller box of chalks. Miss Meggs made a note and smiled and nodded to them both to proceed. Kit stepped out, pleased to find Sylvia falling in beside him.

“We’ll have to hurry.” She was, indeed, bustling along purposefully. “There’s no sense in the men reaching the hall before us. They won’t know where to leave the desks.”

Smiling, Kit inclined his head and, lengthening his stride, easily kept pace.

They strode quickly up Princes Street, electing to avoid the busy quay for as long as they could. She glanced sidelong at him several times, then said, “I didn’t expect you to carry things yourself. Your coat is likely to get chalk dust on it.”

He bent a faintly teasing smile on her. “My man will tut, but I really don’t care. A coat is a coat, after all.”

When she continued to look as if him carting things was something of a social solecism, he sighed. “Think of this as me ensuring that the warehouse is completely cleared by day’s end.”

At that, she looked openly disbelieving. “You didn’t have to help carry things to ensure that—you’ve already done more than I expected.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then quietly said, “Is it so hard to believe that I honestly like helping people?”

The way she blinked at him before she faced forward suggested it had been, despite her “Of course not. I just...hadn’t expected it.”

He hoped she was readjusting her image of him—one of his less-obvious motives.

Their procession had to cross the drawbridge over the Frome, and as the bridge was presently raised, they caught up with their eager helpers there, in the shadow of Viell’s Tower. The instant the ship had passed and the bridge was lowered, everyone set off again. Less encumbered than the other adults, Sylvia and Kit drew ahead.

When they got to the hall, he reached across and lifted the box of chalks from her arms. When she looked about to protest—the chalk!—he grinned. “I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”

She humphed, but consented to dive into her reticule and drag out the key. She unlocked the door and set it wide.

Kit followed her inside. “Where do you want these sorts of things?”

She pointed to the far-right corner. “Over there. Once we have the desks set up again, the boys will put what they each should have back into their desks.”

While he crossed to the designated spot and set down his burdens, she stood by the door and welcomed the men and boys who’d been following them.

He returned to her side and stood behind her as she directed the men as to where she wished them to place the desks, then Jellicoe and Cross arrived with their unwieldy burdens.

The teachers set the blackboards down along the front of the room.

“Well!” Jellicoe turned and, eyes lighting appreciatively, surveyed the hall. “This is certainly a step up.”

“And it’s going to be much closer for us,” Cross said. To Kit, he explained, “Our digs are on this side of the river—along St. Augustine’s Back.”

Jellicoe nodded. “Just a few minutes away, and we won’t have to wait for the drawbridge ever again.”

Sylvia came up. “Can you two remain here for the moment and oversee the boys?” She handed Jellicoe the key. “Once they’re all on their way back, you can lock up and bring the key back to the warehouse. I want to check on Miss Meggs, but by the time you get back, I’ll be ready to head over here again.”

Jellicoe took the key, and Cross tipped her a salute. “Given there are twenty desks, we’ll have to pitch in and muscle over a couple between us. We’ll see you back at the warehouse.”

“Thank you.” With a relieved smile, Sylvia turned away. She collected Kit with a glance. “Coming?”

As was becoming his habit, he grinned and waved her to the door. “Lead on.”

They went back and forth; on reaching the hall a second time, Kit left Sylvia chatting with the teachers and boys and slipped out to the tavern he’d spotted just around the corner. Emerging five minutes later, he fell in with several of the hired men hauling desks between them. He smiled. “Pass the word, if you would—sandwiches and cider for all who’ve helped with the move at the new hall at noon.”

The men’s eyes lit, and they hoisted their burdens with renewed purpose. “Thank ye, m’lord,” several called, while others tipped their heads to him.

Kit strode ahead, meeting Sylvia as she reappeared on the hall’s porch. “There are more desks just turning into the street. And I ordered food—sandwiches and cider—for everyone. The tavern keeper’s wife said she and her girls will deliver the food here at noon.”

Sylvia stared at him. “Thank you. I hadn’t thought...”

He grinned. “I’m used to working with men. We get hungry. And I could hardly eat all by myself.”

She sent him a look that seemed to say that she’d adjusted her preconceived notions of him already, then she looked into the hall. “Cross—did you hear?”

“Aye, and very welcome the sustenance will be,” Cross called.

Together with Sylvia, Kit set out for the warehouse again. Once they’d crossed the bridge and reached the top of King Street, he halted and turned to her. “You go ahead—I have to deal with something, but I’ll join you in ten minutes or so.”

She looked faintly surprised, but nodded. “All right. I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”

He saw her across the street, then turned and strode for his bank. He needed a small mound of shillings.

When he reached the warehouse fifteen minutes later, he was vaguely aware he was clinking with every step. Ignoring that, he halted beside Sylvia near the door and scanned the almost-empty space.

She looked up with a pleased smile. “The last of the desks has gone on its way. We’re almost finished. Just a few more packages of books.” With her head, she indicated a small pile of packages trussed up with twine. “I have to admit I had no idea the boys had borrowed so many books from the lending library. Cross and Miss Meggs take the boys to exchange and borrow new books every week.”

“Has it proved useful—the lending library?”

“Immensely. An adventure book is just the thing to help the boys learn to read.”

Six of the older boys appeared, returning for their next loads.

“We’re the last, Miss Buckleberry,” one of the boys reported. “Mr. Jellicoe and Mr. Cross kept the others back to start unpacking and putting everything away.”

“Excellent.” Sylvia waved the group toward the pile of books. “Take one or two packages each—whatever you can safely carry. I sent Miss Meggs on, so please report to me as you go out.”

“Yes, miss!” came the enthusiastic reply.

With Kit, Sylvia did a quick circuit of the warehouse while the boys picked over the book pile.

“There’s nothing left but the books,” Sylvia stated with satisfaction. “I wouldn’t have believed we could move everything so quickly. Well,” she temporized, “we wouldn’t have if we’d had to move the desks without help.” She caught Kit’s eye. “Again, thank you.”

You can thank me by not tarring me with an undeserved brush. Kit held the words back; he had no idea why her opinion of him should matter so much. All he knew was that it did. Smiling easily, he waved at the empty space. “This is my reward.”

She smiled back, then crossed to the door.

As the boys, each laden with packages, trudged up to the door, Sylvia blinked at the leading pair; the two oldest lads were carrying three packages each, their arms wrapped awkwardly about the bundles. “Boys, are you sure you can manage those?”

“Yes, miss,” the pair chorused. “We’ll manage.”

She hesitated, clearly unsure.

Standing behind her shoulder, Kit ducked his head and spoke softly, for her ears alone. “Let them go—they’re trying to do what they think they should in clearing the place completely. We’ll be following close behind, after all.”

Sylvia nodded at the pair. “Just take care. If you get into difficulties, please wait, and we’ll be along shortly.”

Kit could have told her that was a futile instruction; the last thing the lads would want was for him to see them fail in their self-appointed task.

As the oldest lads departed, the other four trailed up to the door.

One boy fixed Kit with an eager look. “Is it true, then, your lordship, that there’ll be food and cider for us all?”

Kit smiled. “Yes—for everyone who helped move the school, and that definitely includes all you boys.”

The lad beamed, then turned to the boy behind him. “Told you. His lordship’s no pinchpenny.”

With a confident smile for Kit, the first boy led the way out, those behind him looking grateful and eager as well.

“You’ve made friends there,” Sylvia commented.

Kit glanced at her and arched a brow. “Boys are easy to bribe—food almost always works.”

She chuckled, then looked at the book pile; only two packages remained. “We can take those, and then, I believe, you will have your wish—the warehouse properly and thoroughly vacated and ready for your men to move in.”

Kit crossed to the packages and hoisted both up, tucking them under one arm. “I didn’t imagine we’d be this efficient, either, so we’ll have to wait until morning for the delivery of the timbers we’ll need, but come morning, we’ll be here.”

His heart lifted at the thought.

He followed Sylvia out of the open doors and helped her tug them shut. She secured the simple latch with the padlock, turned the key, then offered it to him. “I believe this is now yours.”

Kit accepted the key and dropped it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

In companionable mood, they set out to catch up with the boys.

Sylvia found herself inwardly marveling. Not just at the fact they’d managed to move the school, lock, stock, and barrel, in just one morning, but also that the transfer had run so smoothly.

A boon she was well aware she owed to the man striding so easily beside her.

She glanced sidelong at him—just a quick glance, enough to take in his relaxed, confident, and assured expression. Just long enough to sense again the tug on her senses. That hadn’t abated with exposure, much as she’d hoped it would; he remained a lodestone for her senses, for her attention. Indeed, if anything, the result of spending more time in his company had only increased the intensity of what, in her view, remained a dangerous attraction.

For as long as she’d been aware of it—from the first month of her London Season—Kit Cavanaugh’s reputation had painted him as a charming, dangerously flirtatious nobleman, one who was wealthy but indolent, who meant nothing by anything he said, and who was very much a care-for-naught—the sort of gentleman all sane young ladies and all careful parents avoided like the plague.

Yet the man by her side was none of that.

He definitely wasn’t the gentleman she’d met at Felicia’s wedding...or perhaps he was the same, but she’d assumed he was quite different.

The Kit Cavanaugh she’d seen over the past days was a gentleman of a very different stripe.

The sort of gentleman who could be good company, but who had a serious side. A practical side. On top of that, he seemed to know how to deal with people, especially those not of his class.

She’d met enough aristocrats to know that wasn’t a widely held talent.

Quite what she thought of the Kit Cavanaugh who was walking beside her, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Was what he was now showing her of him real? Or was this the façade?

CHAPTER 4

“Careful.” Kit gripped Sylvia’s elbow to steer her safely across the cobbles of King Street.

His touch sent thrills lancing up her arm; her breath caught, but he gave no sign of noticing, and once they’d reached the wider expanse of Broad Quay, he released her and resumed his steady pacing alongside her.

She decided she was not going to look his way; instead, she surveyed the pedestrians before them. “I haven’t yet caught sight of the boys—they must have rushed ahead.”

It was close to noon, and the crowds on the quay limited how far she could see.

Head raised, Kit was scanning the throng. “A couple of the boys are approaching the bridge.”

As she and Kit neared the drawbridge over the Frome, she got a clear view of the two oldest lads; more heavily burdened, the pair were trudging doggedly along. The other boys with their lighter loads must have gone ahead; there was no sign of them. As by Kit’s side, she wove through the crowd, making for the steps leading up to the drawbridge, she saw the two lads struggle up the stone steps, heave their loads higher in their arms, and tramp out onto the wooden span.

She and Kit were almost at the steps when she heard a loud hail.

Looking up at the bridge, she saw the two school lads being bailed up by a gang of older youths. The four youths pushed and taunted the two schoolboys; it was blatantly apparent that the gang thought to enliven their day by making the younger lads drop their precious packages over the bridge’s railing into the churning waters below.

“Oh, no!” Sylvia tensed to run forward, but Kit thrust the packages he’d been carrying at her feet, all but tripping her.

“Wait here and watch those.”

She had little choice as he strode to the rescue, taking the steps up to the bridge in two strides, then descending on the pack of louts like an avenging angel.

The gang saw him coming and paused, instantly recognizing a predator of much higher status than they. But they didn’t back away from the schoolboys. Instead, the youths waited, assuming Kit—who, whatever he wore or wherever he was, carried his status like a mantle—would stride disinterestedly past and leave their victims to them.

Kit assessed the situation with a keen eye, then veered to halt behind the two schoolboys. He dropped a hand on each lad’s shoulder. “Is there some problem here?”

He directed the question to the lout he judged to be the leader of the gang, a gangling youth of perhaps seventeen years.

Kit allowed his gaze to dwell, coldly, on the youth’s pasty face and waited with icy calm.

Beneath his hands, he felt the two school lads straighten, confidence returning. One of them said, “Don’t rightly know what this lot want with us.”

“Indeed?” Kit arched a brow at the gang leader. “Perhaps you’d like to enlighten us.”

The other members of the gang started to edge away. The leader glanced around, then swung back to face Kit and swallowed. “Ah...no. No problem.” The youth licked his lips and added, “We was just asking if they perhaps needed a hand with them packages, is all, sir.”

Kit allowed a shark-like smile to curve his lips. “It’s not ‘sir’—it’s ‘my lord.’ And how kind of you to volunteer to help.”

The youth’s eyes flew wide. “Wot?”

But Kit was already speaking to the schoolboys. “We have six packages and, all together, I see six lads before me.” He patted the schoolboys’ shoulders encouragingly. “Let’s pass the packages around to these helpful lads, and we’ll be at the school that much faster. Here—let me help.”

Kit plucked a package out of the arms of one of the schoolboys and pushed it into the chest of the gang leader.

Instinctively, the youth grabbed the package.

Before his mates could flee, Kit pointed at them and beckoned. “Come along—don’t be shy.”

In less than a minute, each of the gang members was clutching one of the packages.

“Let’s get moving, then.” Kit waved the six toward the other end of the bridge. “Boys”—he caught the eyes of the two school lads—“why don’t you lead the way?”

Leaving him to pace behind the gang members.

Now carrying only one package each, the schoolboys happily took off, and reluctantly, with an almost disbelieving air, the gang fell in behind them.

Kit watched for an instant, then turned to fetch Sylvia and the packages he’d been carrying—only to discover her a yard away with the packages at her feet.

She met his eyes, and the amused smile on her face was something to see—a sight he hadn’t seen before but wanted to see more often. He frowned, wondering where that thought had come from. “You shouldn’t have struggled with those.”

“They weren’t that heavy, just unwieldy.” Sylvia nodded to where the four youths were lagging and casting glances over their shoulders. “And you’ll need to keep up with that lot if we want those books to reach the school.”

He grunted. Settling the two packages under his arm again, he fixed his gaze on the gang members, who immediately faced forward and picked up their pace. “Come on.”

Sylvia fell in beside him.

As they descended the steps at the other end of the bridge, she glanced at his face. “They’ll never forget that, you know.” She meant not just the gang members but also the two lads from the school—the dockyard brats who’d had a lord stand up for them.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” He sounded as if he wasn’t entirely sure, then added, “I hope they’ll also remember that bullying others can have unforeseen consequences.”

“Indeed.” She looked at the now-subdued youths walking ahead of them.

Her mind scrolled through several vignettes from the morning—of Kit helping some of the younger boys load up, of him answering questions from the avidly curious lads. After a moment, she ventured, “You deal well with children.”

He lightly shrugged. “I was a boy once, too.”

“Be that as it may, you seem to have retained the ability to interact with them, which not all adults do.”

“Ah—that’s the influence of Ryder and Mary’s brood. I spent the last weeks with them, playing at being Uncle Kit.” Briefly, he met her eyes, an amused smile in his. “Trust me when I say that my brother’s children are a very much more difficult proposition to manage than your school lads and their ilk. Aside from all else, my niece and nephews aren’t impressed by, much less cowed by, my rank.”

She chuckled. “I hadn’t thought of that—as the children of a marquess, they share the same rank as you.”

“And they already have the confidence that goes with that.”

They’d reached Trinity Street, and she looked ahead to see the four youths milling uncertainly on the pavement in front of the hall, the packages they’d carried still in their arms.

Kit had seen them, too. He touched a light hand to Sylvia’s back. “Go inside and let me handle this.”

The lads he’d rescued must have already been inside, and judging from the many boys who, their faces alight with smiles and wonder, came to the door to peek out at the gang, the tale of the school lads’ rescue and the gang members’ resulting discomfiture was already doing the rounds.

“Perhaps just have them stack the packages on the porch,” Sylvia murmured.

Kit nodded and halted, facing the now-surly gang. Sylvia walked on and went up the steps and into the hall, gathering the younger boys who had been hanging about the door and shooing them deeper into the hall.

As soon as she’d passed inside, Kit tipped his head toward the porch. “Stack the packages there, and then I’d like a word.”

Warily, the youths complied, then re-formed in a close knot on the pavement before Kit, who had set his packages at his feet.

“Right, then.” He studied the four, who shifted and shuffled. He waited until they were completely still, then said, “The moral of this story is don’t pick on others smaller or younger than yourselves. It’s an easy rule to remember, and I trust you will, indeed, remember it from now on. I’ve taken up residence in the city, and should I hear of any of you being involved in a similar incident or anything worse, I’ll make a point of taking it up with the local authorities. In a nutshell, whenever you’re tempted to do something wrong, remember that there’s always a chance that someone—like me—will be watching. Do you understand?”

They shuffled some more, but managed to mumble, “Yes, m’lord.”

Kit wasn’t entirely satisfied, but there was only so much he could do. “Very well. I believe you have somewhere else to be.”

It took them a second to comprehend that they were being dismissed, then—still wary—they bobbed their heads and skirted around him, giving him a wide berth before, increasingly rapidly, walking back toward the river.

Kit watched them go, then inwardly shook his head. He’d been tempted to see if any of the four needed a job, but the likelihood was that all of them did, and he couldn’t saddle Wayland and whoever he hired as foreman with all four.

Bending, Kit scooped up the packages he’d carried and carted them into the hall.

The scene inside was one of furious activity, with the hired men shifting desks into position and boys running this way and that, ferrying stools, unpacked books, slates, chalks, and all manner of educational impedimenta hither and yon. Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs were directing the scurrying ant-like flow.

Sylvia stood to one side, watching it all with a smile on her face.

Kit set down the last two packages on a desk. Miss Meggs sent him a distracted smile, then directed two boys to untie the strings.

Kit sauntered over to Sylvia. She glanced at him, and he was again struck by the immense difference between the woman now before him and the chilly, reserved lady he’d encountered at his brother’s wedding. “I take it all is going well?” he asked.

“Astonishingly well.” After a further moment of surveying the action, she said, “Once they get everything tidied away, I believe they’ll have earned the rest of the day off.”

“They have worked diligently.”

A shadow darkened the door, and he and Sylvia turned to see the tavern keeper’s wife bearing a huge tray laden with sandwiches.

Miss Meggs hurried forward. She waved the woman to a long trestle table set up along the front wall of the hall. “If you’ll set everything down there...?”

With a grin at the boys and the men—who had all stopped to watch—the tavern wife came in and set down her burden. She was followed by three younger women carting pottery jars of cider and a basket of tin mugs. At the rear of the procession came a burly youth bearing another huge platter of sandwiches.

“There you go, your lordship.” The tavern wife, having set down her burden, turned to Kit with a huge smile. “Been a pleasure doing business, and if you need anything else, just send, and we’ll deliver.”

Kit smiled. “Thank you. This should be sufficient, but”—he tipped his head toward the boys, now gathering in an expectant pack and eyeing the sandwiches as if they were gold—“with a lot like this, one never knows.”

“Aye, you have that right.” The tavern wife beamed at the children, then looked shrewdly around. “A good idea, this—keeps them off the streets and teaches them their letters and hopefully”—she mock-glared at the boys—“some manners as well.”

The entire platoon of boys adopted angelic expressions.

“Huh.” The tavern wife turned from the boys and looked at Sylvia. “If you’d like, miss, me and Bertha can stay and take the platters and things away later. And we’ll make sure there’s no ruckus over the serving.”

“Thank you. That would be a help.” Sylvia motioned to Miss Meggs. “We’ll get the boys in order and send them to you.”

Kit found a stool against the wall, perched on it, and watched Sylvia and Miss Meggs, assisted by Jellicoe and Cross, marshal the boys into a queue in order of youngest to oldest.

Next came the men he’d hired, all good-naturedly grinning and chatting with each other and, occasionally, with the two teachers.

Once the boys and men had helped themselves, Sylvia waved Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs to the table, then looked at Kit.

He rose and ambled across to join her as she trailed at the end of the queue.

The platters of sandwiches had held up under the onslaught; there were still more than enough left to satisfy even Kit. Not that he was all that hungry; he’d enjoyed a substantial breakfast courtesy of Dalgetty, the male cook Gordon had hired, who had proved to have an excellent grasp of what men like Kit preferred to eat.

After helping himself to one of the substantial sandwiches and a mug of the sharp cider, he perched on a stool beside Sylvia and the teachers and Miss Meggs and ate.

Cross gestured at Kit with his sandwich. “Thank you, my lord. This sets the icing on our day.”

“Indeed.” Jellicoe tipped his head Kit’s way. “I have to own to being amazed. I would never have imagined we could shift the entire school in less than a day. And with no fuss, much less major dramas.” Jellicoe gestured widely with his mug. “This took teamwork—and is an excellent lesson for the boys in what can be accomplished when we all pull together.”

The others, Kit included, nodded.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Sylvia nibble delicately on a sandwich...

He shifted on the stool and told himself to focus on something else.

Such as Cavanaugh Yachts and what more he could do to move things along.

The answer was: not a great deal at this moment in time.

Strangely, he felt comfortably resigned to that.

He’d been facing a day of frustrating inactivity as far as getting the workshop under way, but thanks to Sylvia and the school and all who had crossed his path that day, he was feeling content in the sense of having achieved something worthwhile.

He glanced around the hall—at the boys happily sitting cross-legged on the floor, at the men...

An earlier idea resurfaced in his mind.

He turned to Sylvia and the others. When they looked at him inquiringly, he tipped his head toward the men, gathered in a circle beyond the boys. “Do any of you know if any of those who’ve assisted us today are carpenters? Or for that matter, whether any of the boys’ fathers or relatives are shipwrights or carpenters?”

Jellicoe replied, “I would say almost certainly, but we tend not to make a point of their fathers’ occupations.”

“That said,” Miss Meggs put in, “I do know that several of the boys are only at the school because it’s free, and their fathers aren’t here now because they’re out looking for work, as they are every day. Other men, sadly, have simply given up. What with the new iron ships and what I understand are changes in construction, a lot of the older shipwrights and carpenters have been out of work for years.”

Kit nodded. “Those are the sort of experienced craftsmen my partner and I are seeking to hire.” He transferred his gaze to Sylvia. “Would it be all right if I asked the boys to take home word of Cavanaugh Yachts and that we’re hiring shipwrights and carpenters?”

“I can’t see why not.” Sylvia looked at Jellicoe, Cross, and Miss Meggs, who all looked as unperturbed by Kit’s suggestion as she. She turned back to him. “By all means. The more boys with fathers employed, the better.”

Kit grinned and polished off his sandwich. He drained his mug, then returned it to the trestle and continued deeper into the hall. After passing the boys with a general smile, he stopped by the men, seated on the floor; when they started to gather themselves to rise, he waved them back.

“First, to your wages.” He drew the pouch of shillings from his pocket, crouched, counted out the coins, and paid each man.

All grinned and thanked him, genial and relaxed.

“Now, to further business.” Kit returned the depleted pouch to his pocket. “My partner and I are starting up a yacht-building business in the old warehouse—that’s why we had to move the school here. We’re looking to hire shipwrights and carpenters—those skilled in assembling wooden hulls.” He now had the men’s avid attention—and that of the boys, their ears wagging as well; he included the latter group with a glance. “If you know of any craftsmen with experience in those fields, then my partner—Mr. Wayland Cobworth—would be happy to see them at the warehouse from tomorrow. We’ll be starting work then, fitting out the warehouse as our workshop.”

The men exchanged glances, then one of them said, “We’ll pass the word around. Some may be interested.”

Kit nodded and rose. “Thank you.” He looked at the tavern wife and her nearly empty table. “By all means take any food left over—we wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

The men grinned and scrambled to their feet. “Aye, m’lord.” One saluted him. “We’ll head off now, if all’s done?”

Kit consulted Sylvia, then they stood together on the porch and waved the men away.

At a call for a moment’s assistance from Miss Meggs, Kit ducked back inside.

The tavern wife and her daughter, carrying the empty platters and jugs and the basket of mugs, appeared in the doorway.

Sylvia stepped aside to allow them to pass. “Thank you for that feast.”

“Our pleasure, miss,” the tavern wife replied. “If you’ve ever the need for the like again, just stop in—we’re only around the corner on the Butts.”

Sylvia assured the woman that she would remember, then stood and watched the pair walk off up the street. She was about to turn inside when her attention snagged on an older lady, garbed head to toe in black bombazine, who was standing poker straight behind the gate of a house farther up the street. The woman was staring fixedly at the school. There was something in the concerted focus of the woman’s stare that left Sylvia with the impression it was more of a glare.

After a moment, she mentally shrugged, turned, and went into the hall.

“I can’t believe we’re almost done!” Miss Meggs appeared and showed Sylvia the long list of activities the assistant had compiled, each now struck through. Miss Meggs looked to where Kit was assisting Cross and Jellicoe in placing the big blackboards, which, given that the hall was properly leased, they could now leave in situ. Miss Meggs lowered her voice. “I have to say I was surprised to see his lordship...well, get his hands dirty, as it were. One would have thought he would hold himself above carting books and slates and fiddling with blackboards.”

One would. Sylvia studied Kit. “He enjoys it, I think.” He’d certainly seemed to, and the readiness with which he’d helped had earned him an acceptance among all at the school—and with the hired men, too—he wouldn’t otherwise have had.

Finally, the blackboards were positioned and every last book, slate, and piece of chalk had been put in its proper place. Jellicoe and Cross declared themselves satisfied that all was in readiness to commence lessons the next day.

The boys cheered.

Then Sylvia called them to attention and announced that, in light of their sterling efforts, given all was as it needed to be for the school to carry on, she believed the boys could be excused for the day.

The cheer her words elicited rattled the rafters.

“Very well, boys,” Jellicoe said. “You’ve heard Miss Buckleberry. Off you go, and make sure you’re here on time tomorrow morning.”

With whoops and more cheers, the boys headed for the door and streamed out and away.

Kit waited while Sylvia consulted with Jellicoe and Cross, then farewelled Miss Meggs. He followed the teachers and Sylvia out of the door.

She locked up and held out the key to Jellicoe. “I’ll call sometime tomorrow to see if anything has cropped up.”

“I can’t see what will.” Jellicoe accepted the key, then glanced at Kit and smiled. “We now have a stable place to call home, and Cross and I, and Meggs, too, are determined to make the most of it.”

Kit returned the smile and lightly touched Sylvia’s back, urging her down the steps before him. He’d had other motives—ulterior motives—beyond helping the school, yet that ambition had grown during the day to be significantly more important than it had been that morning.

Miss Meggs had already hurried up the street toward the Abbey. After noting her dwindling figure, the rest of them turned toward the river.

They ambled along in the westering light, a sense of contentment—of achievement—wrapping about the four of them. They turned left into the street that followed the river—the Butts, as it was called. A little farther on, they passed the churchyard of St. Augustine’s Church and continued into the section of street known as St. Augustine’s Back. Kit and Sylvia parted from Jellicoe and Cross just before the drawbridge. The teachers entered a tall lodging house, while Kit and Sylvia continued to the steps and climbed onto the bridge.

They paused by the railing to watch a ship steaming down the Frome, then walked on.

“When you were talking to the men,” Sylvia said, “you mentioned a partner—a Mr. Cobworth.”

Kit nodded. “Wayland Cobworth. He’s an old school friend from Eton days and has become a designer of yachts. He and I share a passion for ocean-going yachts and have for more than a decade, so when I decided building yachts was what I wanted to do, finding Wayland and convincing him to become my partner was the obvious next step.” He caught her eyes and smiled. “You can’t build yachts without a designer, and Wayland is world-class.”

She lightly frowned. “Was he the man you were chasing in the West Indies when Rand and Felicia announced their engagement?”

“Yes—I was in Bermuda when the letter telling me of their impending nuptials reached me. I had to leap on the next ship to make it back in time, but luckily, by then, I’d persuaded Wayland to throw in his lot with mine.” Kit glanced in the direction of the warehouse. “He had to remain for several more weeks, but he followed and arrived last week. He’s been spending the day interviewing men for the business.”

She looked at him curiously. “You’re not involved?”

His lips twitched into a grin. “Wayland and I make a good team—we have complementary skills. He’s a superb designer and knows to a T what sort of craftsmen we need and which particular supplies, tools, and timbers. As a designer, a creator, he’s exacting and precise, but he’s hopeless at organizing beyond that sphere—dealing with suppliers, bankers, invoices and wages, investors, and all that sort of thing. He’s too impatient—he just wants to build yachts.”

She nodded. “All the day-to-day decisions and actions.” She glanced at his face. “That’s not so very different to my role with the school.”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, it’s very much the same. You organize, and Jellicoe and Cross teach. I organize, and Wayland designs and builds.”

“And when it comes to selling what you build?”

“That will be mostly up to me, with Wayland enthusing in the background.” His fond smile fading, he glanced at her. “I can’t tell you how thrilled Wayland was at the prospect of getting into the warehouse a day early. He’s champing at the bit to start transforming the space into our workshop, so that when the bulk of the men he’s hiring turn up on Monday, he’ll have everything ready to start laying our first keel.”

They’d reached the front of the building that housed Kit’s office. He halted and looked at her. “Which way are you headed?”

“Home.” She waved farther along King Street. “I live not far away, and with the school ready but shut, there’s nothing more I need to do today.”

He waved her on. “I’ll see you home.”

Sylvia hesitated for only a second, then inclined her head in acceptance. “Thank you.” Were this London, any gentleman of his class would make the same offer, and any lady with her head on her shoulders would acquiesce. Viewed in that light, him escorting her home didn’t mean anything beyond simple courtesy, something she suspected that, in him, was ingrained.

Side by side, they strolled on along King Street, the soft sunshine of the afternoon laying gently across their shoulders.

He’d slipped his hands into his greatcoat pockets and was looking down at the pavement before them. “I also want to thank you—and the school—for the chance to reach out to the sort of craftsmen Wayland and I most need to contact. That was a bonus.”

Smiling at his earnestness, she looked ahead. “I think all associated with the school would say that you’ve earned any advantage the school community can hand you.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t that much—it was easy for me to do.” He glanced briefly at her. “It was you who showed me the way—who opened my door and laid the opportunity at my feet. I just picked it up.”

She suppressed a snort, but there was no real way to counter that argument.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. It was close enough to the truth, yet...

She was starting to realize he had a habit of self-deprecation, of making light of what he did—often, it seemed, because he was wealthy and matters were easy for him to arrange. Because his assistance cost him nothing beyond money he could readily afford.

But was it correct to discount his contribution purely because it was easy for him to make?

She suspected her father would say not and, instead, maintain that the actions of men possessed the same intrinsic value regardless of wealth.

They reached the corner of King Street and Back Street, and she waved to their left. “It’s this way.”

As they strolled on, she asked, “Have you seen Rand and Felicia recently?”

He nodded. “After the wedding, I stayed at Raventhorne Abbey, and they visited several times—their last visit was just before I left to come here.” He glanced at her face. “They’re both well.” After a moment, he asked, “Does Felicia know you live here—in Bristol?”

She blinked, then, considering the question, frowned. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve mentioned the school—she knows all about that and my association with it—but I’m not sure I’ve actually told her I’ve removed to Bristol myself.” She glanced briefly his way and met his caramel eyes. “I do know she sent news of her wedding to my home in the country—my father sent it on.”

“And where is your home in the country?”

“Saltford. It’s a small town on the Bath Road between Bristol and Bath. My father has the living there.” She glanced at him. “Do you have a house in the country you call home?”

He looked ahead. “Not as such. The Abbey is now Ryder and Mary’s home and purely a place to visit.”

“No house in London?” She imagined a London rakehell of his wealth would definitely have a house in town.

“I used to share lodgings with Rand, but now... If I want to stay in town, I’ll just use my room in Raventhorne House in Mount Street.” His lips twisted wryly. “Truth to tell, I avoid London as much as I can.”

“You do?” That surprised her. “Why?”

He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “The more pertinent question would be: Why wouldn’t I?” When, at a loss, she blinked at him, he elaborated, “There’s nothing that attracts me in London, much less holds my interest. No yacht-building. No sailing of that sort.” He shrugged and looked at the pavement again. “Nothing I fancy.”

Nothing he fancied? Sylvia might have thought he was pulling her leg, but he looked and sounded utterly sincere and combined with what she’d seen of him and learned of him that day...

She was starting to suspect her earlier opinion of Kit Cavanaugh had been not just inaccurate but comprehensively in error.

Which raised the tantalizing prospect of who the man beside her truly was—what manner of man he actually was.

Pondering that, she gestured to the left. “My lodging house is this way, on the far side of the park.”

He turned with her, then asked, “Tell me what you know of the Dock Company.”

That didn’t take long, but his subsequent questions about the city, about the atmosphere now that, with the advent of larger, heavier ships, the dock work was shifting downriver, displayed an inherent grasp of what made communities tick and prosper.

“So,” he said, “the mayor and the city council are stable and entrenched, but are floundering regarding the adjustments necessary to meet the challenges confronting the city.”

She tipped her head. “That’s a reasonable summation. As yet, there’s been no major public protests, but from time to time, the mood turns rather ugly—or should I say dejected?”

He nodded in understanding. “The latter sounds nearer the mark.”

“This is it.” Sylvia paused outside the gate of the terrace house in which she lodged and turned to face the man she had for years regarded as her romantic nemesis; thankfully, he would never know. She put out her hand. “Thank you for your escort.”

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