Marrying Winterborne (9 page)

W
HEN
R
HYS AWAKENED THE
next morning, the first thing he saw was a dark object on the white sheets beside him, a little wisp of shadow.

Helen's black cotton stocking, the one he hadn't destroyed. He had deliberately left it next to his pillow, to forestall any fears that it might have all been a dream.

His hand reached out to close over it, while his mind swam with images of Helen in his bed, his bath. Before taking her home, he had dressed her before the warm hearth. Choosing a brand new pair of stockings from a box that had been sent from the store, he had knelt before her and slid them up her slender legs, one by one. After pulling the knitted silk to the middle of her thighs, he had fastened the lace welts with elastic satin garters embroidered in tiny pink roses. With Helen's naked body so close to his face, he hadn't been able to resist nudging his mouth and nose against the juncture of her thighs, where the fine blond fleece was still damp and scented of flowery bath soap.

Helen had gasped as he had cupped her naked bottom in his hands and let his tongue play among the tender curls. “Please,” she had begged. “No,
please
, I'll fall. You mustn't kneel like that . . . your leg is stiff . . .”

Rhys had been tempted to demonstrate a far more critical stiffness than the one in his leg. However, he
had relented and released her. He had continued to dress her, helping her into a pair of drawers sewn of silk so fine that they could have been pulled through the band of a wedding ring, and a matching chemise trimmed with handmade lace as delicate as cobwebs. There had been a new long-line corset as well, but Helen had declined it, explaining that she had to wear the old-fashioned shaped corset and bustle, or her dress wouldn't fit properly.

Garment by garment, Rhys had reluctantly covered her back up in heavy black mourning layers. But it had filled him with satisfaction to know that she was wearing something from him against her skin.

Stretching and rolling to his back, Rhys toyed absently with the purloined cotton stocking, rubbing the little mended places against the pad of his thumb. He inserted a finger into the top of the stocking, and then another, stretching the soft fabric.

He frowned as he recalled Helen's insistence about having the wedding in five months. He was tempted to kidnap her, and ravish her all the way up to Scotland in a private train carriage.

But that probably wasn't the best way to begin a marriage.

Tucking all four fingers inside the stocking, he brought it to his nose and mouth, hunting for any scent of Helen.

Tonight he would go to Ravenel House and ask for Devon's consent to the marriage. It was certain that Devon would refuse, and Rhys would have no choice but to reveal that he had dishonored Helen.

And then Devon would attack him like a feral wolverine. Rhys had no doubt in his ability to defend himself. Still, brawling with a Ravenel in a rage was
something any rational man would try to avoid if at all possible.

His thoughts strayed to the subject of Devon's recent good fortune, which, according to Helen, had something to do with mineral rights on his twenty-thousand-acre estate. The portion of land in question had just been leased to a mutual friend, Tom Severin, a railway magnate who intended to build tracks across it.

After his morning rounds today, Rhys decided, he would visit Severin to learn more about the situation.

Keeping the stocking against his lips, he blew a soft breath through the fabric. His eyes half-closed as he thought of Helen's lips parting for his kisses, the lightspun locks of her hair wound around his fists. The feel of her intimate flesh, tightening as if it were greedy for every inch of him.

Kidnapping, he decided in a haze of lust, was still a possibility.

A
FTER
R
HYS MET
with Severin at his office, the two men walked to a local fried fish shop for lunch, a place they both visited often. Neither of them was fond of having a long, leisurely meal during the middle of a workday, preferring the light refreshment shops that were to be found in every quarter of London. Well-heeled gentlemen and common workingmen alike frequented such establishments, where one could buy a plate of ham or beef, dressed crabs or lobster salad, and be done with the meal in a half-hour. Food stalls along the street offered fare such as boiled eggs, a ham sandwich, a batter pudding or a cup of hot green peas, but that was a dodgy proposition, since one could never be certain how the food had been adulterated.

After sitting at a corner table and ordering plates
of fried fish and mugs of ale, Rhys considered how to broach the subject of Devon Ravenel's land.

“Hematite ore,” Severin said, before Rhys had uttered a syllable. He smiled easily at Rhys's questioning glance. “I assume you were going to ask, since everyone else in London is trying to find out.”

The phrase “too smart for his own good” was far too often applied to people who weren't in the least deserving of it. In Rhys's opinion, Tom Severin was the only person he'd ever met who actually was too smart for his own good. Severin often appeared relaxed and inattentive during a conversation or meeting, but later could recall every detail with almost perfect accuracy. He was bright, articulate, confident in his razor-edged intellect, and frequently self-mocking.

Rhys, who had been raised by stern and joyless parents, had always liked people with Severin's quality of irreverence. They were of the same generation, with the same humble beginnings, the same appetite for success. The main difference between them was that Severin was highly educated. However, Rhys had never envied him for that. In business, instinct was equally as valuable as intelligence, sometimes even more so. Whereas Severin could sometimes talk himself into the wrong side of an issue, Rhys trusted the promptings of his own nature.

“Trenear found hematite ore on his land?” Rhys asked. “What's the significance? It's a common mineral, isn't it?”

Severin loved nothing better than explaining things. “This grade of hematite ore is of unusually high quality—rich in iron, low in silica. It doesn't even need to be smelted. There's no deposit like it south of Cumbria.” An ironic grin twisted his lips. “Even more
conveniently for Trenear, I've already planned to run rail tracks through the area. All he has to do is quarry the stuff, load it onto a hopper, and transport it to a rolling mill. With the demand for steel so high, he has a fortune on his hands. Or more accurately, beneath his feet. According to the surveyors I sent, rock-boring machines were pulling up samples of high-grade ore across at least twenty acres. Trenear could garner a half-million pounds or more.”

Rhys was glad for Devon, who deserved a stroke of good luck. During the past few months, the former carefree rake had learned to shoulder a burden of responsibilities that he'd never wanted nor expected.

“Naturally,” Severin continued, “I did my damnedest to get the mineral rights before Trenear realized what he had. But he's a stubborn bastard. I finally had to concede near the end of the lease negotiations.”

Rhys glanced at him alertly. “You knew about the hematite deposit and didn't tell him?”

“I needed it. There's a shortage.”

“Trenear needed it more. He's inherited an estate near bankruptcy. You should have told him!”

Severin shrugged. “If he wasn't smart enough to discover it before I did, he didn't deserve to have it.”

“
Iesu Mawr
.” Rhys lifted his ale mug and downed half of its contents in a few swallows. “A fine pair of fellows, we are. You tried to swindle him, and I propositioned the woman he loves.” He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Devon was no saint, but he had always been a solid friend, and he merited better treatment than this.

Severin seemed fascinated and entertained by the information. He was dark haired and fair skinned, with lean, sharp-cut features, and the kind of gaze that tended to make people feel targeted. His eyes were
unusual, blue with uneven swaths of green around the pupils. The green was so much more pronounced on the right side that in certain light it appeared as if he had two entirely different-colored eyes.

“What woman?” Severin asked. “And why did you make a play for her?”

“It doesn't matter who she is,” Rhys muttered. “I did it because I was in the devil's own mood.” Kathleen, Lady Trenear, had told him—without malice—that he would never be able to make Helen happy, that he wasn't worthy of her. It had touched that raw nerve in himself that he had never fully understood, and his reaction had been mean. Ugly.

Thereby proving her right.

Bloody hell, he wouldn't blame Devon for thrashing him to a fare-thee-well.

“Was this around the time Trenear's little cousin ended her betrothal with you?” Severin asked.

“We're still betrothed,” Rhys replied curtly.

“Is that so?” Severin looked even more interested. “What happened?”

“Damned if I'll tell you—the devil knows when you might use it against me.”

Severin laughed. “As if you hadn't fleeced more than a few unlucky souls in your business dealings.”

“Not friends.”

“Ah. So you would sacrifice your own interests for those of a friend—is that what you're saying?”

Rhys took another deep drink of ale, trying to drown a sudden grin. “I haven't yet,” he admitted. “But it's possible.”

Severin snorted. “I'm sure it is,” he said, in a tone that conveyed exactly the opposite, and gestured for a barmaid to bring more ale.

The conversation soon turned to business matters, especially the recent flurry of speculative building to address the housing needs of the middle class and working poor. It seemed that Severin was interested in helping an acquaintance who had fallen into debt after investing too heavily with a low rate of return. Some of his property had been given to a firm of auctioneers, and Severin had offered to take over the rest of his mortgaged properties, to keep him from becoming sold up altogether.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Rhys asked.

“Naturally,” came Severin's arid response. “That, and the fact that he and three other large property owners in the Hammersmith district are part of a provisional committee for a proposed suburban railway scheme I want to take over. If I pull my friend out of the mess he's made for himself, he'll convince the others to support my plans.” His tone turned offhand as he added, “You might be interested in one of the properties he's selling. It's a block of tenements that are being torn down as we speak, to be replaced with model dwellings for three hundred middle-class families.”

Rhys gave him a sardonic glance. “How would I make a profit from that?”

“Rack-renting.”

He shook his head with scorn. “As a boy living on High Street, I saw too many workingmen and their families crushed when their rents doubled with no warning.”

“All the more reason to buy the property,” Severin said without pause. “You can save three hundred families from rack-renting, whereas some other greedy bastard—me, for example—wouldn't.”

It occurred to Rhys that if the residential buildings
were of good quality, well plumbed and ventilated, the project actually might be worth buying. He employed approximately a thousand people. Although they were well paid, most had difficulty finding good quality housing in town. He could think of several advantages to acquiring the property as a residence for his employees.

Settling back in his chair, Rhys asked with deceptive indolence, “Who's the builder?”

“Holland and Hannen. A reputable firm. We could walk to the construction site after lunch, if you'd care to see it for yourself.”

Rhys shrugged casually. “It won't hurt to take a look.”

After the meal concluded, they walked north toward King's Cross, their breaths ghosting in the raw air. Handsome building facades, with their ornamental brickwork and terracotta panels, gave way to soot-colored tenements separated by narrow alleys and gutters filled with muck. Windows were covered with paper instead of glass, and cluttered with laundry hung out on broken oars and poles. Some of the lodgings were doorless, imparting a sense that the buildings were gaping at their own decaying condition.

“Let's cross to the main thoroughfare,” Severin suggested, wrinkling his nose at the sulfurous taint of the air. “It's not worth a shortcut to breathe in this stench.”

“The poor sods who live here have to breathe it all the time,” Rhys said. “You and I can endure ten minutes of it.”

Severin slanted a mocking glance at him. “You're not becoming a reformer, are you?”

Rhys shrugged. “A walk through these streets is enough to make me sympathize with reformist views.
A sin, it is, for a decent workingman to be forced to live in squalor.”

They continued along the constricted street past blackened facades that had turned soft with rot. There was a dismal-looking cook-shop, a gin shop, and a small hut with a painted sign advertising a supply of gamecocks for sale.

It was a relief when they turned a corner onto a wide, well-drained roadway and approached the construction site, where a row of buildings was in the process of being torn down. The scene was one of controlled turmoil as a wrecking crew systematically dismembered the three-story structures. It was dangerous and difficult work: More skill was required to take down a large structure than to build it. A pair of mobile steam cranes mounted on wheels polluted the air with thunderous rattling, whistling, and clacking. Heavy steam boilers counterbalanced the jibs, making the machines remarkably stable.

Rhys and Severin walked behind a row of wagons being loaded with waste lumber to be hauled off and split for kindling wood. The grounds swarmed with men carrying pick-axes and shovels, or pushing wheelbarrows, while masons sorted through bricks to save the ones that could be reused.