Lady X's Cowboy (11 page)

The men looked at each other, puzzled.  Whatever they had been expecting, it wasn’t a slip of a lady telling them to get lost.

“We ain’t finished ’ere,” one said.

“I believe you are,” Olivia insisted, her tone cutting and cold. 

“But—”

“If you have any further business of your own to conduct, I suggest you take it up with Mr. Coffin.”  Seeing his cue, Will gave his best crazy grin, the kind that said he’d be happy to chew off their ears and use them for target practice.  Pryce’s men actually turned white.  “He would be delighted to discuss whatever concerns you—outside.”

“’E’s the bloke what nearly shot Jimmy’s ’ead off,” one hissed to the other.  They both swallowed audibly.

The publican looked back and forth between Will and Olivia and the thugs, plainly at sea.  Olivia, meanwhile, was composed and frosty, a touch impatient for the annoying interlopers to be on their way.  Will heard a clock ticking in the silent pub; even the noises from the street had quieted. 

“Well?” Olivia demanded icily.

One tough looked at the other and then bolted for the door.  “I’m off!”

“Me, too,” his companion cried, running after him.

As their footsteps clattered into the distance, Olivia turned to Mr. Cowling.  Her voice warm but businesslike, she said, “Perhaps you should fetch your record books from your office and we may determine if your supply of Greywell’s is enough.  I want to keep my customers satisfied.”

The publican nodded readily and scuttled into the back office.  As soon as he disappeared, Olivia let out a long, unsteady breath, and her hands were shaking as they clutched her little bag.

“I believe in poker, that is what is called bluffing,” she said with a tremulous smile.  She sat down heavily on a nearby stool as though her legs had suddenly given out from under her.

Will shook his head, thunder-struck.  “Remind me never to bet against you.”

Chapter Six

Crawcook, Pryce’s valet, finished tying his master’s cravat, adjusting the folds carefully.  His master was a demanding one, and would often make Crawcook undo his handiwork and retie the whole thing over again if even the smallest pleat was not perfect.

Fortunately, sir was too distracted today to make even a cursory inspection of his cravat, else Crawcook was certain he would have made him reknot the silk necktie simply to prove that he had the power to make him do so.  Sir had been distracted quite a bit lately, and Crawcook was grateful for it. 

“Watch fob,” his master demanded, and a case of fine Swiss and Austrian chains was presented for his inspection.  After making a selection, Crawcook took the fob and affixed it to the jeweled watchcase sir had received from his father, the earl, after finally completing his studies at university.

Just as the valet was holding out his master’s worsted wool jacket, there came a tap at the door.  It was Len Banks, the footman.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Len said with an apologetic shrug, “but there are two...em...gentlemen in your study wishing to speak with you.”

“Tell them I’m busy,” sir snapped.

“They say it is urgent, and will not leave.”

Sir purpled with anger, and Crawcook didn’t envy them being on the receiving end of his master’s wrath, which could be terrible indeed.  Instead of having two of the burly underbutlers remove the visitors, sir said hotly, “I’ll be down in a moment.”  He shoved his arms into his jacket, tugged irritably on the sleeves, and then strode from the room without another word.

Len and Crawcook exchanged glances, and immediately followed sir.  They kept a discrete distance, and then waited for him to go into his study, before sidling up and pressing their ears to the closed door.  The heavy wood made it difficult to hear everything, but Crawcook was an adept hand at eavesdropping and was able to make out a goodly amount.

“...what the
hell
are you talking about?” roared sir.

“...’ad a
gun
, sir...” a voice answered, and from the sound of it, a voice from Whitechapel.

“...nearly blew me ’ead off, sir,” another voice chimed in.  Len and Crawcook glanced at each other and shuddered with glee.  Two men from the East End visiting sir—there would be good talk at the servants’ table tonight.

Sir gave another snarl and Crawcook thought he heard something heavy being thrown and hit the wall.  “...incompetent! ...disgusting American...trollop of a widow...something else must be done.”

“What...?”

“...Maddox...”

Crawcook and Len traded looks of gleeful shock.  Not Maddox!  The man was well-known even to servants of the gentry.  He was a horror, a monster, high-priced and ruthless.

And then the servants had to scatter into the recesses of the house, because the old countess was coming down the hall.  They dove into a nearby hallway and listened carefully.  The countess rapped on the door to sir’s study.

“I say, George, we must leave immediately if we are to make the Duchess of Walford’s tea party,” she called.

“I’ll be along shortly, Mother,” sir answered after a pause.

“
Now
, George,” she said in a voice that Crawcook and Len both knew too well.  She sailed off back towards the front of the house, and both the valet and the footman pressed up against the wall to keep from being seen when sir jerked open the door of his study.

“I’ll deal with you two later,” he barked to the men in his office, “so leave by the servants’ entrance and never come into my house again.”  He stalked away, and shortly after the grumbling and swearing East Enders vanished.

Both Len and Crawcook had to suppress the giggles that rose up in their throats.  They must wait until sir and his dragon of a mother were out of the house before scampering belowstairs with their story.  And it was a marvelous story.  Who would ever believe an earl’s son mixing with blokes from Whitechapel?  And who, exactly, was the disgusting American and the trollop of a widow?  And what was sir summoning Maddox for?  These were mysteries the servants would ponder for hours.

“You have heard so much about this place, perhaps it is time I showed it to you,” Olivia said as she and Will entered the brewery.  “Here is Mr. Huntworth, the esteemed manager.  How are you today, Mr. Huntworth?” she asked as a round, alert owl of a man approached them, blinking behind thick spectacles.

“Much better, thank you, Lady Xavier, since you and your associate solved our distribution problem,” he answered brightly.  He ran his sleeve over his smooth forehead.  She made quick introductions, and outside of a fast, considering look the manager gave Will, no one seemed to question Will’s presence either with her or at the brewery.  Which was very well since she wasn’t quite sure of herself around him anymore. 

She had been so glad to see him returned unharmed from his delivery; it had taken a considerable self-control to keep from launching herself at him and covering his face with kisses.  Perhaps having him assist with the protection of the brewery wasn’t such a good idea, after all.  She was beginning to like him too much.  Yet the weariness that had been beleaguering her for so long was beginning to lift, largely due to Will Coffin.  He helped her face down George Pryce, and he didn’t question her right to run a business—unlike most people she knew.  Such relief.

But Will couldn’t be more distant from her—socially, financially, geographically, and just about every other way she could imagine.  He was temporary, nothing more.  And eventually, she would go back to running Greywell’s alone.  The prospect wasn’t as cheering as it had been only a few days ago.

“I shall take a look around, Mr. Huntworth,” she decided.  “Just to make sure everything is running smoothly.”

The manager seemed used to the idea.  “As you wish, Lady Xavier.  Let me accompany you.”

“Why not come along, Will?” she found herself asking.  “At the very least, you can see how beer is made.”

He hesitated.  He hadn’t decided whether to help her or not, and Olivia herself was torn.  His assistance would be invaluable—he had scared off Pryce’s henchmen several times and seemed to know how such wars were waged—but the more time she and Will spent together, the more he intrigued her.  And, Lord, she didn’t need more of society’s disapproval.  Running the brewery had made life difficult enough as it was.

But she would lose Greywell’s without him.  He needed to stay.

“Sure,” he said at last. 

She made her inspection with Mr. Huntworth and his omnipresent clipboard.  Will stayed beside her and gazed around at the enormous rooms and machinery. 

“This spread you’ve got sure is considerable.”  He whistled.

“I thought so, too,” she admitted.  She checked the pressure on a boiler and nodded in satisfaction to Mr. Huntworth.  “When I found out that David had left me the brewery, I didn’t know the first thing about making beer.  So I took a tour of Greywell’s and was absolutely astonished.  The first thing I noticed was the smell.”

Will took a deep sniff.  “Like a big loaf of bread.”  He sniffed again and made a face.  “A big, angry loaf.”

She laughed.  “I don’t notice it anymore, or so I tell myself.  I can only wonder what
I
must smell like.”  And then she remembered that Will did know what she smelled like, he’d told her so the second time they had met, and it brought back the same rush of intimate awareness she’d felt that day.

Will must have felt it, too, because he abruptly turned and pointed to the giant tuns in the middle of the room.  “What’re these?”

“Mashing tuns,” she explained, grateful that neither of them had spoken any further about her personal scent.  “We mix the ground malt with liquor—that’s what we call water—and then mash it for two hours.”

“Lady Xavier had the tuns fitted with steam-heated jackets to keep the temperature exact,” Mr. Huntworth said proudly.  “The latest in modernization.  Come and see.”

Greywell’s was a smaller, local brewery with only one brew house, but Olivia could see that to many unfamiliar with the process, and with industrialization in general, the six-story structure could look like a castle built of copper kettles and huge fermenting vessels.  In his clean, worn Western clothing and Stetson hat, strolling past enormous refrigerators and fermenting vessels, Will looked incongruous, a wilderness spirit rattling amongst the man-made.  He had such an outsized wildness about him, even at rest, that the machines hissing and humming around him emphasized rather than diminished.

How absurd all this must look to him, she thought as Mr. Huntworth demonstrated a specialized thermometer.  How prideful and transitory, compared to the mountains where he  came from.

But Greywell’s was impressive, too.  She’d worked hard to make it one of London’s most modern breweries.  There were rooms and rooms, some with giant copper drums, and others with long, open coolers where fans created breezes to bring down the temperature.  And there were her many employees, men and women, all as invested in the success of the brewery as she.

“Let me show you the pride of Greywell’s.” She led him towards their covered well.  “Water is the most key component of brewing,” she explained, as Huntworth lifted the wooden cover.  “We are lucky enough to have our own well.”

“It goes eight hundred and fifty feet deep,” Huntworth chimed in. 

Will peered down into the dark expanse of the well and yodeled, then laughed at the echo.  “That’s halfway to China.”

“Australia,” she said, also laughing.  “Every day we do a chemical analysis to make sure that the mineral content is exactly what we need for our different beers.”

“I thought beer was beer.”

“So did I, but I came to learn otherwise.  We make five here.  A porter, a stout, a strong, and mild and pale ales.”

“All Londoners drank stouts and porters,” Huntworth said, “or so we thought.  We weren’t making much of a profit when Lord Xavier bought us, but when Lady Xavier took over, she had us add gypsum to the water so we could produce the Burton ales everyone’s become so fond of lately.”

“They’re lighter and brighter than heavy porters, and easier to drink,” Olivia explained.

“Can’t be a brewer anymore without making a pale ale,” Huntworth concluded.  “And Lady Xavier knew it, even if we didn’t.”

She shrugged to dismiss his praise, even though Mr. Huntworth’s compliment meant quite a bit to her.  Winning Lawrence Huntworth’s good opinion had been an uphill battle at the beginning.  Getting anyone to listen to her had taken every ounce of strength and determination she had possessed, and even some she didn’t but had to pretend she did.  And after she had won over the people at Greywell’s, she’d had to weather the storm of public opinion.  And now the threat of George Pryce.

Glancing over at Will, she saw frank admiration in his crystalline blue eyes, heating her as much as a steam-powered engine.  He had not questioned her role at Greywell’s, but she still enjoyed earning his respect.

Huntworth waved them ahead as he stopped to talk with one of the workers.

“You sure know a lot ’bout brewin’,” Will said as they moved away from the well.  His boots rattled the floorboards, sending tiny vibrations through Olivia’s own feet and up along her spine.  “Didn’t know that ladies did that sort of thing.”  

“I had to spend two years in mourning for my husband,” she said.  “One year in deep mourning and another in half mourning.  I had to refuse all invitations, and see no one except close relatives.  That’s what society dictates.”

“Society!” Will said with a snort.  “What the heck is that?  Just a bunch of stuffed shirts sittin’ on their inbred hindquarters.  Can’t even wipe their own noses. “

She shook her head.  “That’s not true.  If I go against society, the consequences could be horrible.  Absolute social exile.  No one would see or speak to me, and I couldn’t travel anywhere without scandal following me.  It would be like becoming a ghost—completely invisible to everyone, but doomed to wander the earth.”  She shuddered.  “I chose two years of inactivity rather than face that fate.”

“That sounds duller than a week-long Bible meetin’.”