The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh Read online

  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.