The Pursuits of Lord Kit Cavanaugh Read online

  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 d
ockyard 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 o
f 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.