Betina Krahn (11 page)

“Excellent. And I thought perhaps it would be good to see the workings of our fine legal system,” she said, making notes. “Where would one go to see barristers and magistrates?”

“The Temple Bar. The Inns of Court are where barristers hang their wigs and silks. The Old Bailey is where trials and lawsuits are heard.”

“The Inns of Court, then.” More notes. “And our august government…where do those of a political calling spend their time?”

“Besides Parliament and Westminster? Certain gentlemen’s clubs are known to serve as the back halls of government.” His jaws tightened visibly.

“And physicians? They can always use patronage and support.”

“Why don’t we just put a ‘Husband Wanted’ notice in
The Times?
” he snapped irritably.

“You think that would work?” she said with taunting innocence.

He rose, grabbed his hat and excused himself to the smoking car.

Mariah watched him go and sighed, feeling a little ashamed of herself. When she turned to look out the window, she found Mercy glowering at her.

“Ye sure ye got yer heart set on marryin’ agin?”

Her heart? That about summed it up.

“I do.” She glanced at the door. “Assuming I find the right man.”

“Then why don’t ye jus’ marry Handsome Jack there? He cuts a fine figure. An’ he’s in the market for a wife.”

“Now,
there’s
a thought,” Mariah said, as if it had never occurred to her.

“Though you’d have to loosen ’im up some.” The housemaid scowled as she followed her mistress’s gaze to the door. “That lad’s cinched up tighter’n a nun’s knickers.”

“Something tells me he would loosen up nicely—” she gave a knowledgeable smile “—if someone pulled the right strings.”

L
ATE THAT
afternoon, they transferred from the train station by cab to Claridge’s in London’s fashionable Mayfair district. The hotel had long been known as one of the city’s premier lodgings; the ledger bore the names of tycoons, British nobles of every stripe, royalty from the continent and assorted diplomats, heiresses, opera stars and impresarios.
Discretion
was Claridge’s watchword, and if there was anything they needed—as Mercy gawked like a bumpkin and Mariah practically had to be frog-marched into that den of luxury—it was discretion.

A word from Jack to the manager secured them two well-appointed rooms at the rear on an upper-level floor.

“Only two?” Mariah questioned him as they signed the register.

“I have my own lodgings in the city.”

“You do?” She looked momentarily dismayed, then brightened. “Well, Lord knows I don’t need a chaperone.” She glanced around the lobby, caught the admiring attention of a fellow dressed like a Prussian general—all Hessians, helmet and gold braid—and returned his interest.

Jack’s face tightened as he turned back to the manager.

“We will need
three
rooms, please.”

It was intimidating, to say the least, to see the liveried hotel staff scurrying to transport their luggage and packages
and arrange for their comfort. But by dinner that night in the hotel restaurant, Mariah had recovered her equilibrium and was able to present to Jack her itinerary for shopping and sightseeing…one that allowed for maximum exposure to London’s eligible male population.

Stone-faced and holding the list she had presented him in a death grip, he excused himself before the final course was served and left Mariah to Mercy’s rustic company for the rest of the evening.

A
T TEN O’CLOCK
the next morning, Mariah descended to Claridge’s ornate lobby dressed in her military-style navy blue traveling suit and matching toque hat, looking rested and eager to take on the city. Jack had himself just arrived, looking roughly the same color as the gray silk vest he wore beneath an immaculate black suit. The dark circles under his eyes, his somber garments and the dread that had settled over him like a blanket gave him the appearance of a misplaced pall bearer.

Concerned, she suggested they take coffee and offered to find him a headache powder before departing. He donned his top hat, growled that he felt “fine, perfect,” and ushered her out to the waiting cab.

The streets were filled with lorries, push carts, omnibuses and foot traffic…all moving at a pace enlivened by the brisk air and unseasonably bright sun. She bent to the window to take in the sights and bombarded him with questions about The Strand, Old Bailey, Big Ben and Parliament.

He watched the way she embraced the city, feeling as if he were seeing her—truly seeing her—for the first time. It was all there: her irresistible vitality, her joy in discovering new things, her irreverent curiosity, her vibrant wit and unselfconscious beauty.

“Oh, St. Paul’s,” she said with awe, leaning across his
knees as the cab turned to maintain her view of the cathedral’s magnificent dome. “I never thought I’d see it.” She looked up with a beaming smile.

He glanced away, feeling as if he’d just stared straight into the sun.

They finally emerged from the cab onto a broad, bustling intersection bounded by official-looking stone buildings and filled with men in business suits and bowlers. The sight brought a gleam to Mariah’s eyes.

“So this is the financial heart of the empire, the City,” she breathed, grabbing his arm to steady herself after she turned around and around.

“There is the Lord Mayor’s residence—Mansion House.” He pointed out the looming gray-stone building with the Corinthian-columned portico. “And down there is the Royal Exchange. I thought you might like to see the insurer, Lloyds of London. I have a friend from Cambridge who oversees their underwriting on the electrical-lighting systems cities are starting to install.” He halted, seeing a reaction bubbling up in her.

“Just look at all these men.” Her eyes lit up. “I mean, you hear the population figures, but it’s hard to imagine all these men in one place. Tall ones, short ones…young ones, old ones…rich ones…richer ones…”

He felt—and looked—as if she’d just gored him.

“This way,” he ground out, pulling her along toward Lloyds.

So began a day of introductions and cab rides and sights that Mariah had never expected to see: the Royal Exchange, the Tower of London, Waterloo Bridge and Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. Everywhere they went she attracted attention; men interrupted their work in offices and tipped their hats to her in the streets. The more notice she received, the more aloof Jack became. And the more he withdrew, the more pointedly she emphasized their matrimonial mission.

“The gentlemen at the table behind you are staring at me,” she said as they sat in a restaurant having a bit of lunch. “Exceedingly fine tailoring. Silk ties and gold pocket watches.” She lowered her voice. “Public-school products…I’d lay money on it.”

“Shall I go over and demand to know their annual income and inspect their waistcoats for soup stains?” he said with visible annoyance.

“Yes. Please.” She directed a small, decorous smile toward the gentlemen in question. “And collect a few ladies’ names as references.”

He let his fork fall to his plate, drawing her attention back to him.

“Could we have a civil meal just this once,” he said in clenched tones, “without you prowling for a mate like a lioness on the Serengeti?”

“My, aren’t we judgmental?” she said with unshakeable equanimity. “Especially for a man whose fortunes depend on me finding a ‘mate.’”

That set him back on his heels. He had the grace to look chagrined.

“This is not a duty I relish,” he said bluntly. “And you make it all the more difficult with your unseemly enthusiasm for the opposite sex.”

Mariah studied him for a moment, knowing exactly what was making him chafe and determined to see there would be no relief.

“First I’m too reluctant and overly picky, then I’m too eager and show ‘unseemly enthusiasm.’ Make up your mind, Jack. Do you want me to find a husband or not?” She watched him struggle internally for control.

“I believe I have made my position on that perfectly clear.”

“Yes. But, two days ago,” she said, leaving unsaid that it
was before he’d let down his guard and made love to her. Before he’d claimed her in a way no man had before or would after. She studied his frown, wishing she could pry open his head and poke around in his thoughts. She sighed. She’d have to use more conventional methods.

“I have only nine days left to find a husband.”

“I am fully aware of the time constraints.” He bristled.

“Then how do you suggest I find a good match and make a ‘satisfying marriage’ if I cannot look at other men or attract their attention?” His silence was gratifying. She let it deepen a bit before delivering the coup de grâce. “Well, I suppose there is always one other option.”

“And what would that be?” He went stock-still, listening intently, not allowing himself to meet her gaze.

“You could marry me yourself.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
She produced a demurely wicked grin. “I’m fairly certain we’re a match in the ‘satisfaction’ department.”

His jaw loosened and his eyes widened. He looked like a man who’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

“Breathe, Jack. In…out. In…out.” She gave his arm a squeeze and laughed.

“It rather puts things into perspective, does it not?” She lifted her chin, knowing the seed had been planted. “Now, about these interesting gentlemen at the next—oh, dear.” Her gaze followed the trio of well-dressed men making their way to the door. She let her shoulders sag with disappointment. “They’re leaving.”

Jack didn’t speak another word to her until they were seated in a cab and on the way back to Mayfair for her appointment with a dressmaker. And then it was only to tell her that she would have to dine alone at their hotel that evening since he had business to attend to at his club.

In the long afternoon at the dressmaker’s and in the
evening that followed, she had time to go over and over their conversation, trying to tease out the truth of his reaction from the meager clues he’d given. He was shocked and no little alarmed to find himself still wanting her and jealous of the attentions of other men. He didn’t want her flirting with, admiring or enjoying other men, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

The question was: would Iron Jack ever do anything about it?

Thus, she was surprised the next morning to find him entering the hotel breakfast room with a brisk step and a much brighter countenance.

He joined her and Mercy at their table and sipped the strong black coffee the server brought with obvious satisfaction.

“You certainly look better than you did yesterday,” she ventured.

“A stroke of luck.” His face beamed such seductive pleasure that she was caught unprepared and blindsided by the reason for it. “I made inquiries and discovered Stephens Knitting Mills has a London office…to which Richard Stephens is moving the company.” He piled gooseberry jam onto a buttery scone and took a bite, rolling his eyes in appreciation. When he’d washed it down with coffee, he smiled. “Are you ready to meet your future husband?”

“I
HAVE
an appointment at Le Beau Chapeau at eleven,” she said, declining to do more than glance out the cab windows. They were driving through the industrial east end of London, a place filled with factories, warehouses, railway spurs and the din of men and machines loading and unloading freight cars. Was it her imagination, or had dirty, low-hanging clouds deposited themselves over just this part of the city?

“We should be finished here and back in Mayfair in time for you to spend more of the prince’s money.” He took a fortifying breath and adopted an emphatic glare. “Do try to keep the hat bill to something reasonable.”

She refused to rise to the bait.

“Have I mentioned how much I adore the bed linen Claridge’s uses? I inquired about it last evening, and the concierge referred me to a department store in Knightsbridge. A place called Harrods. He said they have the finest linen available. If it is good enough for visiting princes, archdukes, and ambassadors, it should be good enough for Bertie. Don’t you think?”

She was rewarded by the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

“It appears Stephens and I have acquaintances in common,” he declared, stacking his hands on the head of his walking stick. “It seems he was at Magdalene College in Cambridge some years back. Studied the sciences and engineering. He came not long after I left. His father died in his final year, and he returned home to take charge of the family business.”

“A dutiful sort, then.” She refused to let his determination daunt her.

“Diligent, I think, might fit better. A fine trait in a husband.”

“You think so? What about a wife? Is diligence desirable in a wife?”

“I have never given it any thought.” He looked a bit discomfited.

“Well, perhaps it’s time you did.” She paused a beat. “You know, while we’re looking for me a husband, we could look for you a wife.”

“No.”

“Oh, come, Jack, don’t be a stuffed shirt. You know, you’re far too serious. When you marry, you need to find someone
who can make you laugh. You need some humor in your life…along with rampaging passion, tender affection, and a walloping dose of—”

“What I need and don’t is none of your concern,” he said irritably.

“I was going to say common sense. But I think perhaps you have an oversupply of that already.” She studied him openly, tapping her lip thoughtfully with a finger. “I’d say you need someone with a bit of a rebellious streak. Someone who will tempt you to do things you’ve always wanted to do, but were afraid to try. Someone who will challenge you to live life on your own terms, not on your family’s.”

“Enough.”

The force of that word closed the discussion like a sledge hammer. His nostrils flared as he turned to look out the window.

Her heart had just started to find a normal rhythm when the cab stopped and he burst out the door onto the street. She spent a minute gathering her composure, telling herself that he was wrestling with his conflicting impulses. But her spirits were dealt a blow when she ducked out of the carriage to find the driver waiting to assist her instead of Jack.

He’d gone ahead to the door of a plain but imposing brown-brick building with soot-darkened windows set high in the walls. Above the modest street-level door hung a sign identifying Stephens Knitting Mills. Jack tried the handle, then knocked and informed the wool-capped workman who answered that he was there to see Mr. Stephens.

The fellow shrugged and stepped back to allow Jack and Mariah to enter. The place was twice as big inside as it looked from the outside, and it smelled of oil, metal and freshly sawn wood. The cement floor was dotted with machinery pulled from splintered wooden crates that were stacked here
and there. Several workmen stood in a surly knot around a fire in a barrel, smoking pipes and casting grim looks at the silent machinery. Directing Jack and Mariah to a set of stairs leading up to a windowed office, the fellow rejoined his comrades.

Jack paused, looking at the stairs.

“Perhaps you should stay here while I see if Stephens is around.”

“I need to see him in his element, remember?” she said, eyeing the open steps and pipe-metal railing, then started the climb.

The minute they opened the door, they heard voices and a moan coming from an inner office. Large electric bulbs dangled from the ceiling, illuminating a work area that was just short of chaotic. Half a dozen desks and drafting tables were stacked with boxes and folios and rolled plans, some of which had spilled onto the floor. Wooden filing cabinets with half opened drawers lined two of the walls, and chairs were hidden under piles of paper and the odd greasy machine part.

“Please, sir. Let me send for a physician,” came a male voice from the inner room. “You can’t go on this way. You have to eat and sleep—”