It had been ten days since Magnus had left Addlewick. Ten days since he’d lost all sense and reason and kissed the daughter of his enemy. Ten days since he’d experienced the most confounding, wit-scrambling moment in his life.
And he had thought about it again and again and—devil take it—again.
During those scorching moments, he’d forgotten himself. But he would never make such an error in judgment in the future.
After all, giving into impulse without careful consideration and certainty was the very thing that led a man to ruin and dragged his family down with him. His father had taught him that by example, many times over.
Which was the reason Magnus was sitting in a carriage outside a chained iron gate in a rather ominous part of London, the air pungent with brine and sewage this close to the wharf. And a thick coat of creosote covered every building, dwelling and street in a black film.
He was there to meet a man by the name of Fitzherbert Eugene about a steamship business—the same enterprise that had bankrupted his father.
However, unlike his father, who never would have hesitated to invest in this sort, or any sort, of speculation, Magnus had researched the entire endeavor in depth ever since receiving his first letter from Mr. Eugene.
The proposal was sound. Simply stated, it was a business venture to take over the ownership of the foundry, dry dock and business that had been used to swindle men out of their fortunes seven years ago. Only this time, it would be a real company, not a fiction created by a liar and cheat. And, more importantly, it would only be Magnus taking the risk.
He did not want anyone other than himself involved. If the business was going to suffer setbacks or failure, then only he would bear the brunt of it.
He had first met Eugene at the trial, shortly after the scandal had been brought to light. As an engineer fresh out of university, the unsuspecting Eugene had been hired to develop and oversee the machine works.
In fact, an entire factory crew had been hired. But it was later presumed that those positions had only been set in place to provide an air of authenticity. And, in the end, every investor and worker had lost everything.
After the trial, the young man had approached Magnus with condolences for the loss of his father. Then, with great humility, he’d asked for work. His willingness to do any job from field hand to footman had left an impression, and although Magnus could offer no employment, he had given him a few pounds to help him find a new start in America.
Then Eugene had written to him months ago, hoping to repay that debt.
He had learned that the ship used to lure in unsuspecting investors to the scheme had been dismantled but kept in a warehouse. And it was purely by happenstance that his current employer had met with a certain Mr. Modine who’d made his fortune in scrap metal and who owned the warehouse where the ship lay to rest in pieces.
So Eugene had contacted Magnus with an idea: What if it was possible to buy the warehouse and actually build the ship? To start the enterprise that was originally proposed?
Since he knew that a shipping empire had been a wish of the late Duke of Longhurst, he didn’t believe it was fair to let it all go to scrap.
And it was true. Magnus’s father had risked everything to bring his youngest son home.
Rowan Warring had been adrift for many years, falling into one scrape or another, leaving university and purchasing a commission in the military. There had even been rumors of darker dealings, but Magnus had always tried to handle those matters in order to keep Mother and Father from knowing.
But Father had found out. He’d even used Rowan as a reason to invest the bulk of their fortune on the speculation set in motion by Viscount Underhill and Baron Hartley.
When Magnus had confronted his father about it, he’d offered a flippant shrug. “This time, it will be different.”
“You said the same thing about the silver mine, offering up an exorbitant sum for a hole in the ground that had been leached of every mineral years before,” Magnus had said, trying to hold on to his temper. “I was nearly thrown out of university due to all the time I’d spent trying to set matters aright.”
“But that’s all in the past. This is our future. I aim to bring your brother home, and provide a solid, respectable occupation. We’re building a family empire,” he’d said, his eyes bright with childlike excitement.
It had always been that way. The thrill of the venture. The great leap before looking.
And when everything crashed to the ground, it was always the same. “Magnus, my boy, will you fix everything, just once more?”
But there had been nothing he could do. The coffers were bare and moneylenders were lining up in droves. He was unable to reassure his father, who had retreated into his rooms for weeks on end, refusing to come out.
Magnus had thought the episode would have been like all the others. But he’d been wrong.
After the inquest, Viscount Underhill had been charged with the sole blame for orchestrating the deal. A separate bank account had been discovered with a sum of four thousand pounds that Underhill could not account for and he’d dissolved into a babbling, slobbering mess at the trial. Even though the money recovered had been only a fraction of what investors had doled out, it had been sufficient evidence to convict him of the crime and sentence him to hanging. No one ever discovered where the rest of the money had gone.
But Magnus had his ideas.
He’d always believed that there had been a mastermind behind the entire plot, someone slick and wily who could easily deceive people into believing whatever he chose. Someone who’d built an entire life on his ability to spin a yarn with a silver tongue. Someone who had been in the center of it all from the beginning.
And it could have been no one other than Hartley.
Magnus was not alone in this belief either. However, there had been no evidence sufficient enough to make Hartley stand trial. So he’d gone free and was able to hide away from society in his little hamlet while others had lost everything.
And having known all this, for the life of him, Magnus still couldn’t fathom why the control he prided himself on had seemingly drifted away on a slow river current in Addlewick when he’d taken Verity Hartley in his arms and kissed her soundly. Twice.
“Forgive me for my tardiness, Your Grace,” Mr. Eugene announced as he suddenly appeared on the pavement outside the carriage window, startling Magnus out of his guilty reminiscences. “I know how valuable your time is. And I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”
Magnus inclined his head in response. After stepping out of the carriage, he walked beside the younger man through the creaking gate, over the uneven cobblestones and up to the battered black door.
Fitzherbert Eugene was a plain bookish man of slight build with a pair of crooked spectacles on his nose. At the moment, he was trying to manipulate the key into a rusty lock. “I know it doesn’t appear very impressive. But you did say that you wanted to build this business over time and not spend money for appearance’s sake.”
“Just so,” he agreed and willingly stepped through the doorway to examine the rest of the proposed London office.
“Fortunately, I was able to procure this building before anyone else. As luck would have it, the offices are still equipped with furniture and there won’t be a need to purchase more.”
Magnus liked the sound of that. Eugene understood that he wanted to be frugal. This was to be a family venture, and he hoped his brother would commit to his promise of making this his own. Or, at the very least, take over a portion of it.
After lighting a lantern, he surveyed the space with a critical eye. There were crates stacked here and there, tools scattered about. The absence of order tempted the fastidious side of his nature, and he was itching to roll up his sleeves and set everything to rights. Yet, for now, he simply continued his assessment.
Seeing the open area from that vantage point, all it really required was a thorough cleaning. The structure seemed solid with a foundation of stone.
“If you’ll walk this way, sir,” Eugene said as he crossed to a windowed enclosure along the far wall. Inside was an office space, still littered with papers and supplies that the previous tenants hadn’t bothered to take. The younger man gestured to the drafting table where pages of a steam engine schematic were already laid out for inspection. “As I mentioned before, I studied mathematics in France alongside Brunel. Together we collaborated on this design, and if not for the fact that he is still recuperating from the unfortunate collapse of his father’s tunnel, he would be here today.” He drew in a breath and gestured to the plans with a grin of modest pride. “With this, we’re going to revolutionize the world.”
His excitement was almost contagious. Magnus found himself wanting to dive into this project without delay. But those were the traits of a man who acted rashly, someone like his father.
But he was not such a man. Never one to trust on faith alone, he had done his due diligence in researching Eugene, writing to that school in France and verifying that he was, indeed, a man of letters and had been admired by his professors.
Not only that, but together they had toured the foundry in Birmingham. They’d even gone to the offices in Bristol and examined the dry dock.
“I almost forgot. Here are the bills of sale you requested,” Eugene said, reaching into his satchel and withdrawing a sheaf of papers. “The problem was, none of the previous owners had enough capital in the beginning. After Lord Underhill’s trial, they thought they could buy in with a pittance and pick up where he left off, then make a tidy profit. They soon learned that building a ship isn’t child’s play. You cannot make it out of paper and sail it down the river. It requires laborers, a foundry, a machine works, timber . . .” He looked at him steadily. “But you understand all this, unlike the others. And you know that this venture requires all the pieces be put in place from the beginning. Which is precisely why the Longhurst Shipping Company will succeed.”
Magnus resisted the ego stroking and combed through the bills of sale that had changed hands over the past few years for the foundry, the Bristol office and dry dock. As for the scrap metal magnate, Mr. Modine, he was willing to consider offers for the warehouse when he returned from the Orient.
Modine would be in London in six weeks, but only for a few days. Which meant that Magnus must marry Miss Snow by then in order to have the money he needed.
“Those are yours to peruse at your leisure,” Eugene said, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with an ink-stained index finger. “I understand how difficult this all must be for you. And trust doesn’t come easy to either of us after what happened.”
Magnus nodded as he carefully straightened the papers, the heavy weight of the past falling on his shoulders like a shroud.
Eugene cleared his throat, his voice solemn when he continued. “I was present when your father—rest his soul—agreed to invest, but only if his youngest son would be guaranteed a position of importance in the shipping company. Of course, as a man of honor, I never imagined that it was all a ruse. That I had been working for a swindler and villain. Lord Underhill deceived so many of us, and never once apologized, not even on the day of his hanging.”
During the trial, Magnus had learned that Viscount Underhill and Baron Hartley had been friends since their boyhoods. The viscount had been a guest many times at Hartley Hall. And even though Hartley had never been charged with a crime, there wasn’t any possible way that he hadn’t been part of the scheme all along.
“We were all deceived,” Magnus offered.
“Which is the reason I sent that first letter to Your Grace. That, and to repay the kindness you bestowed on me. So when I learned about the warehouse and Mr. Modine’s plan to sell it for scrap, I knew that this was my chance to settle our debt. My own conscience demanded it. I never leave things unfinished. And besides,” he added, “I know I’ve designed an exceptional steam engine. Letting this opportunity go would be insupportable.”
Magnus looked over the schematic thoughtfully. He liked the engineer. The man was plain spoken and possessed more integrity than many men he knew.
However, because being a duke demanded a certain level of caution, he was not one to trust anyone implicitly. “Has it been tested?”
“Of course, and it is magnificent, if I do say so myself,” he said with a humble shrug. “Regrettably, it is still in Germany, awaiting word of your final decision. However, if it would set your mind at ease, we could travel there together.”
Magnus had plans to see Mr. Snow that evening to broach the topic of his betrothal again. He had waited this past week and a half to ensure that there were no lingering rumors or doubts of his suitability.
But even if he could secure an agreement from Snow during the visit, there would still be a requisite number of weeks before the marriage could take place. In the meantime, the Button King would likely expect a future son-in-law to spend time courting his daughter.
Not only that, but Magnus could hardly spare the expense of a trip to Germany. He shook his head. “I’m afraid I have no time to travel.”
“Time is of the essence, for both of us,” he said, quickly rolling up the designs. “Which leads me to bring up the rather unsavory topic of payment, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” Magnus said, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. He handed over the envelope containing the thousand pounds, which was nearly every last shilling he currently possessed.
Eugene tucked it away into a satchel, appearing uncomfortable. “I truly wish I did not have to take such a deposit. As I mentioned in my letter, I lost everything to Lord Underhill as well, and I firmly believe that, in case Mr. Modine returns earlier than expected, this earnest money would be our only insurance against losing everything again.” He hesitated. “Unless, you have changed your mind regarding other investors. In truth, when it is all said and done, the sum will be quite the burden to carry on your—”
“No one else,” Magnus interrupted. He abhorred any speculation whatsoever. His father had done it all too often with no thought to owning up to the consequences. But there was absolutely no way that Magnus would ever ask someone else to share in that risk. “The responsibility is mine alone. I am doing this for the sake of my own family.”
Mr. Eugene accepted this answer with a nod.
Magnus took another moment to look around the space and envision what it could be like, once it was finished and bustling with activity. He only hoped that his brother was indeed willing to put himself into this role. He wasn’t certain of the answer. But he knew that Rowan’s nature was not suited for the clergy. The structure of the military had not agreed with him either.
Father had believed that this was the only path for his youngest ne’er-do-well son. And it had been the one decision that Mother had supported without question.
Magnus wasn’t certain any occupation would hold his brother’s interest for long. Nevertheless, he would do whatever he could to honor the wishes of his parents. It was his duty, after all.
Mr. Snow invited him to share a drink in his home at ten o’clock that evening. He claimed that business matters and his daughter’s social calendar had left him so preoccupied that he hadn’t been able to find time any sooner. But Magnus understood the delay for what it was—a lesson in power.
He didn’t mind it. When a man felt the need to measure himself against another, it meant that there was something he admired or envied. Either possibility worked in Magnus’s favor. Obviously, his title and position in society were still in the old eagle’s sights. Which was a relief.
There was too much at stake. He didn’t want the added worry that Snow would entertain the proposal of another aristocrat.
“Ah. Punctual as ever, Longhurst. I appreciate that in a man,” Snow said the instant he crossed the threshold. “Whisky or cognac?”
After the day he’d had, there was only one drink for Magnus. “Whisky.”
“Good. I never trust a man who prefers cognac,” Snow said, not bothering to hide that the question had been some sort of test.
Apparently, Magnus had passed. One would think that examinations ended at university, but no. There were always men who walked around carrying an invisible chart of ambiguous standards for others to reach. Because he understood that, too, he didn’t take offense.
Nevertheless, he was in no mood for a series of trials. He was impatient to have this matter settled once and for all.
At the sideboard, Snow poured two glasses, then crossed the room and handed one over without ceremony. Lifting his own in a toast, he said, “To the future.”
Taking that as a good indication of what was to come, Magnus saluted and tossed back the amber liquor. His jaw clenched on the burn, a sweetly charred flavor lingering on his tongue. “Excellent whisky.”
“By now, I thought you’d have realized that I would only have the best,” he said with an archly self-satisfied grin.
Magnus offered a polite nod. “Indeed, sir.”
“I demand it in all things, especially for my daughter.” Snow took the empty glasses and returned to the sideboard to pour two more. “You managed that situation in Lincolnshire with diplomacy. From what I hear, you did not once deny the claim made against you. Were I in your shoes, I’d have gone in all bluster, raging against the reprehensible falsehood aimed at me.”
It would have been easy to admit that his initial introduction to Verity had been a close cousin to that. Magnus had been furious. Yet, in hindsight, he realized that he’d detested having his name linked to a Hartley more than the actual crime itself.
Assuming this was another test, he carefully considered his words as his host crossed the room and handed off his refreshed glass. “I might have done. But I did not believe that inflicting humiliation on Miss Hartley would have left either of our reputations in good standing. I am grateful that she is sensible to the ramifications wrought by her misguided tale.”
“I should hardly use the word sensible to describe a woman who imagines herself to be betrothed to a duke. Then again, why not a prince? Or a king for that matter?” He chuckled.
The next swallow of whisky lingered bitterly at the back of Magnus’s throat.
“From what I gather, the declaration was uttered after some degree of chaos,” he said, feeling his shoulders tighten with irritation as he recalled hearing that Verity had been climbing out of a window just moments before.
Foolish woman! She may have had far more than her pride hurt.
Not that it mattered to him. She was out of his life for good. He would no longer be plagued by her antics or her eyes. Or her lips, he thought distractedly.
Clearing his throat, he continued. “The intention was not to align herself with me, but to deflect the accusations of an unsavory foe.”
The amusement fell from Snow’s countenance like a sudden thaw. “Surely you cannot condone her actions.”
“No,” he responded carefully. “But a man is able to see another’s perspective without adopting those practices, is he not?”
“Mmm,” Snow grumbled but conceded with a nod and set his empty glass down on the table. Straightening, he stood in his usual eagle pose, talons hooked, wings at rest.
Magnus couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t being invited to sit, to stay for dinner, or to see Miss Snow. The purpose of the appointment—whatever it may have been—was nearing an end.
Unsettled and trying to think of a way to move beyond what happened in Addlewick, he set his glass down as well and gestured to the enormous desk and wingback chair on the far side of the room. “Shall we move on to discussing the contract, then?”
“Eventually, I trust,” Snow said. “However, I should like to wait a bit longer to ensure that nothing else crawls out of the woodwork. After all, this betrothal news took me by surprise. And I don’t like surprises. They’re usually flawed and require attention that I would rather put into making more money.”
“The matter has been dealt with and concluded satisfactorily.”
“Then another fortnight should not signify,” the Button King said, taking a heavy step toward the door in a way that brooked no misunderstanding on Magnus’s part.
He was being escorted out, and he was no closer to marrying Miss Snow than he’d been a fortnight ago. In fact, his unplanned sojourn had set him back in more ways than he cared to think about at the moment.
Damn it all! A man with his pedigree shouldn’t be having this problem. Snow should be begging him to marry his daughter and elevate her in society. Instead, he was on the verge of begging.
Everything depended on this marriage, and he was starting to suspect that Snow knew this. The man liked control even more than Magnus.
Searching his mind for a solution, he knew that reassurance was what a man like Snow required. And he could give him that.
At the door, he held out his hand. “There will be no more surprises. You can rely upon that.”
“Then I look forward to our next meeting, Longhurst.” Snow took his hand in a firm, meaty grip and Magnus left feeling more confident.
Of course, he didn’t like the delay. But as long as nothing else went wrong, he should be engaged to Miss Snow the week after next.
Then the banns would have to be read, the marriage license obtained, the wedding, the contract and payment to secure the boat and the living for his brother, the repairs on the estate, hiring workers . . .
With the seemingly endless list of tasks awaiting him turning in his mind, and no hope for the smallest reprieve, he went home and strode directly to the study for one more nip of whisky. He needed something to take the edge off.
Lifting the decanter from the escritoire, he poured, absently wondering when was the last time he had ever been at ease. But just as he was about to convince himself that he’d been born feeling like a branch about to snap, he had a vision flash through his mind—a terrace at night, a sky full of stars overhead, and standing beside him was a woman with changeable violet-colored—
No, he thought. Absurd. A self-deprecating huff fogged the glass he held to his lips just before he took a hearty gulp.
His mind was overwhelmed, obviously. Of course, that might not have been the case if he’d been able to sleep at all. Instead, he’d been plagued by dreams of her every night. Lurid, uninhibited dreams where she matched his passion and welcomed his every feral desire.
It took supreme effort to shake off those dreams and manage his day with any sanity at all. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was a man of sense and he knew there was nothing between them other than an unwelcome attraction.
Standing at the hearth, he propped one hand against the mantel while the other swirled the amber liquid in the glass. “It is time to forget about Verity Hartley.”
“Longhurst?”
He spun on his heel at the startling sound of the familiar voice, then gaped at the figure standing in the doorway.
This wasn’t happening, he thought with a hard blink. Verity wasn't there. And she most certainly couldn't have been wearing a ruffled lavender dressing down with one button unfastened at the white lace collar, her plaited hair draped over her shoulder, her brows arched in inquiry. He was having a vision. That was all.
And yet, after he blinked again, he knew he was awake.
Devil take it. He was actually losing his mind.
He watched as she stepped into the room, holding a book in one hand as her head tilted in question. “Longhurst, did you hear me? I thought you called my name. And why are you looking at me so strangely as if I were a ghost? Your mother did mention that I arrived with your grandmother this afternoon, did she not?”
Grandmother? What did she have to do with any of this?
He shook his head, trying to clear it. But it wasn’t until he heard the sudden crack of the glass shattering against the floor, after it fell from his untended grasp, that he realized this wasn’t a dream.
It was a nightmare.
Verity Hartley was here, and she could ruin all his plans.