Ever His Bride (16 page)

He had located his library in a room which he
knew to have once been a grand ballroom. He’d purchased the house
from a man who’d made his fortune in canalways, a foolish man who
hadn’t had the sense to see that trains would soon replace post
roads. Hunter himself had advised him to invest in the rails, made
repeated offers to assist. But the man was too proud and, in the
end, too late. He’d bought the house and the grounds in a rare act
of charity, and because it was isolated, yet close enough to
commute to the Claybourne Exchange every day.

A fire was newly set in the library grate,
and two lamps had been lit against the evening. Branson had
dutifully laid out Hunter’s attaché on the desk alongside a stack
of the day’s newspapers.

Of course he would pay his wife’s
dressmaker’s bill without further comment. Meath would expect Mrs.
Claybourne to look the part when they dined at his house. Not that
any man would take note of fashion, in the light of Miss Mayfield’s
distracting smile. He had only noticed the new dress she was
wearing because of the button that needed fastening at her back.
Which caused him to think of the sounds of her dressing behind the
screen, which made him wonder if Madame Deverie thought to include
suitable nightwear in this very expensive wardrobe. He stood up
from his desk, intending to seek out Miss Mayfield—

But she was standing in the doorway, taking
in the length and breadth of the library in a single, efficient
assessment. Absurdly, he dearly wanted to know what she thought. It
was the only other room besides his bedchamber that he used with
any frequency. The tall cases of books reminded him that he’d read
each one; the exotic woods and works of art satisfied his sense of
order. The room smelled of solid, successful contentment, just like
the Exchange.

But his wife frowned at the bookcases and the
statuary, and then turned her frown on him.

“Yes?” he asked, feeling roundly chastised
without knowing the offense.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mr.
Claybourne, but two of the crates contain dining-room chairs. May I
have them set out in the—”

“Put them anywhere you like.”

She seemed to approve of his decision but
remained in the doorway as if she were afraid of contracting some
illness from the room. “You’ve more books upstairs in the hallway,
Mr. Claybourne. At least, that’s what the crate says they are.
Shouldn’t they be brought in here?”

“I’ll speak to Branson—”

“In the morning. Yes, yes, I know. Why don’t
you let me take care of that? The unpacking. Set some of it aright.
If I’m to call this place home—off and on—for the next year, I’d
prefer it to feel more like a home and less like a dockside
warehouse.”

He had never considered uncrating the house.
He didn’t use many of the rooms, rarely needed anything, kept his
staff at a minimum. But he could think of no good reason to object
to his wife’s suggestion. And if it would keep her occupied . .
.

“Uncrate it all, if you have a mind to.”

She took in a breath of surprise. “Do you
mean it, Mr. Claybourne?” She smiled as if the library had been
transformed into a wonderland.

He swallowed his own answering smile. “You
see, Miss Mayfield, I’m not an illogical man. Your offer is sound
and I accept it. And if you’ll come in here out of the hallway,
I’ll finish buttoning your dress.”

“My . . . ?” She leaned forward at the
door.

Hunter stood up and came around his desk.
“You’ve missed a button.” She didn’t move. “I’ll fasten it if you’d
like.”

She seemed stunningly shy all of a sudden but
came toward him with her chin held high, her feet still bare. He
made a turning gesture and she presented her back to him.

“I’m going into London again tomorrow, Mr.
Claybourne.”

“You think so?” The faint spray of
honey-colored freckles across the rise of her shoulders caused him
to wonder at the nature of her travels. Hours in the sun,
perhaps?

“I need to spend some time in the British
Museum Reading Room. By latest count, it has nearly a half million
books.” She swept her arm along her nape, lifting the wildest of
the escaped strands of hair off her neck.

And there it was again, the urge to kiss her,
to unbutton where he ought to be buttoning, to slip his hands
inside her bodice and hold her against him, to turn her in his arms
and press his mouth against hers.

“And which of all these books do you intend
to read?”

When she spoke again her voice had grown
silky and low. “Oh, anything I can find about Northumberland.”

He thought he heard her sigh as he finally,
reluctantly, fastened her dress closed. It was another moment
before she dropped her arm and turned to him. He thought she would
flit away, but she looked up at him, her lips newly moistened and
lush. The high crest of her cheeks had pinked, and the green of her
eyes had taken on the dappled hues of the forest.

“For your travel guide,” he repeated for her,
for himself.

“Yes, Northumberland. I rarely travel there.
That’s George Hudson’s territory,” she said, leaving him for the
wall of books opposite the windows. He stood in the middle of the
library while she studied the titles, her back straight and her
profile perfect. “Father disliked and distrusted Hudson for the
man’s loyalty to profit over safety. He’d be very happy to know
that the Railway King’s reign is ending.”

“You know about Hudson’s imbroglio, then?”
Very much impressed that she should know about such things.

“I know the man personally. That he used
capital to pay out dividends to his shareholders, then paid a
pauper’s salary to his staff. He always took the lowest bid in his
construction materials. And spread rumors that my father drank
himself to death.”

Hunter had heard the same, and now felt
uncomfortable with the knowledge. “How was it he died?”

“The doctors said it was a cancer of the
brain. A year ago last autumn, Father went blind in his right eye.”
She ran her hand along the back of a small, bronze buck. “Two
months later he lost the feeling in his leg on the same side. But
he loved his railways, and worked until the week before he
died.”

When she looked up at him, her eyes were
pooled with tears. “I miss
him
very much.”

Hunter chided himself for having asked; he
wasn’t the comforting type. She seemed an island to him, or an
elusive meadow, a place of native beauty that he could never quite
reach, never fully comprehend. And he dare not try. In the name of
his fortune, he had already risked a marriage with her; he would
not, could not risk anything deeper. George Hudson had failed
because he had risked too much; he would not be such a fool with
this woman. He would increase his vigil and keep his distance.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss
Mayfield.”

“Thank you, Mr. Claybourne. But that’s why I
need to go to the Reading Room. To learn as much as I can about
Northumberland before I arrive.”

“And you’ll be home by afternoon?”

The woman set her jaw and then answered,
“Late afternoon.”

“Very well. Branson will see to your
transport in the morning.” He sat down at his desk and raised the
newspaper between them.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mr.
Claybourne.” He heard her flounce to the door then stop.

He looked up at her over the top of the
Times
. “Yes?”

“Will you be taking dinner with me in the
dining room tonight? Mrs. Sweeney is serving stew.” She offered an
overly gracious smile.

“Not tonight, Miss Mayfield.” He lowered his
gaze to the newspaper; another day of marital bliss down, only a
few hundred left to endure.

F
eeling very much
dismissed, Felicity shut the door over-hard as she left, then
leaned against it.

“Miserable hermit!” she said, not caring who
heard her, hoping he had.

The
Times
rustled behind the thick
panel of carved oak, and a chair scraped. She jumped away from the
door and watched the latch, thinking it would shift and then she’d
be confronted with Claybourne’s scowl.

Anger. At least that would be something she
could understand and rail against. It was his granite moods that
disturbed her, the unpredictable times when his jaw would harden
and his eyes shade over.

And his gaze could alight on her mouth and
linger like a kiss—a kiss she wasn’t entirely sure she would turn
away from.

A moment passed and she heard him settle back
into his chair.

Wretched man! Hunter Claybourne might have
money to burn, but it certainly wouldn’t keep him warm on a cold
winter’s eve.

The following morning, Felicity left the
British Museum Reading Room after just an hour, quite relieved not
to find Branson hovering outside, ready to report her whereabouts.
She had assured him that she wouldn’t need his services until noon.
She found a shop nearby and bought three shirts for Giles, then
took a hackney to Threadneedle Street, where she hoped to catch
sight of him as he went about his daily thieving in front of the
Bank of England.

She hadn’t been there more than a quarter of
an hour when she nearly crashed into the boy as he dodged past a
coffee seller’s rickety cart. He was in a guilty hurry, stuffing a
pouch into his shirtfront. But he hadn’t seen her.

She hurried after him and almost called out
to him, but she suddenly wanted to know where he lived, where he
laid his head at night. If she stopped him now to give him the
shirts, he might turn her away. So when Giles went north at
Bishopsgate, she followed him all the way to the alleyways off
Shoreditch Road.

Where she lost him in the blink of an
eye.

“I’ll see if Mr. Claybourne is in.”

“Lanford,” Hunter muttered as he heard the
voices on the other side of his office door. The man probably only
wanted to gossip over George Hudson’s troubles. It seemed the only
subject of interest in Threadneedle these days.

“Show him in,” Hunter said, before Tilson had
gotten the door completely open.

“I thought you’d like to be the first to
know,” Lanford said, as he strode into the room. “Hudson’s put the
Blenwick Line and three other railways up for sale. Seems he needs
some ready cash to settle a suit against him. One of his
shareholders wants to know if you’re interested.”

“In one of Hudson’s ventures? I think
not.”

“It’s going for pennies on the pound.”

“Not my pennies.”

“The Bank was considering it, but if you’re
not interested, Claybourne, perhaps we shouldn’t be either. By the
way, is your wife in the City today?”

Hunter hadn’t paid much attention to the man
until that moment. Miss Mayfield had been a plague upon his
thoughts through the course of the morning. “She is, Lanford,
though it’s none of your business.”

“Visiting somewhere nearby?” Lanford cocked
his head toward the door.

“No. Why?”

“Because I just saw her in Threadneedle
Street.”

He couldn’t ignore the heavy stone that
dropped into his gut. Lanford was lying, or mistaken, or—

“Granted, I saw her only from my window, but
she’s not a woman easily mistaken . . .”

“When did you see her?” He hoped his
uneasiness didn’t show; his pulse had come to a standstill.

“Most recently . . . maybe an hour ago.”

“Most recently? How many times did you see
her?”

Lanford shrugged and smiled, seeming to dote
on this clandestine information. “A dozen or more. She had a bundle
under her arm.”

“What kind of a bundle?”

“Couldn’t tell. Though not a baby, surely.
Too soon for that, eh, Claybourne?” Lanford lifted his brows.

“Go on,” he said, as evenly as he could
manage, given the urge to toss the man from his office window.

“A bundle wrapped in brown paper. And she
walked up Threadneedle,” Lanford said, tracing the air with his
finger, “then down again, weaving in and out of the foot traffic as
if she were looking for someone. I say! Where’re you off to in such
a rush, Claybourne?”

But Hunter was already in the outer office.
“Get Lanford out of my office, Tilson. Immediately. I don’t know
when I’ll be back.”

Damn the woman! She had confessed outright
that she was going to give a shirt to that Pepperpot brat the very
next time she saw him. And now he would bet the
Drayhill-Starlington that she’d come to Threadneedle looking for
the boy!

Hunter took the back stairs to his private
carriage house at the back of the Exchange, roused Branson from the
cab, grabbed the reins on his own, and launched the brougham into
traffic.

Felicity bit back her revulsion as she picked
her way along a fetid and tightly curved lane that had led her off
Shoreditch Road and into Bethnal Green. Giles couldn’t possibly
live here; his eyes were too bright, his wit too quick!