The Lodestone (37 page)

It wasn’t that Drake didn’t pay him enough. Garnett suspected he was overpaid, although he had no idea what a purchasing agent was supposed to earn. It was simply that, having already instructed Drake to send most of his salary home to Easton Place, everything had to be budgeted down to the last copper if Garnett was to pay his own way through the coming year, get his parents through the winter and have enough to buy seed and hire workers to plant it, come spring. It all made his head ache so, and if he was going to keep his promise to Drake, he could no longer use spirits to dull the pain he felt because Cleome could not love him, or quell his fear and worry about the future.

“For one thing,” Drake had told Garnett the evening he had found him in a drunken stupor in a waterfront pub in London, “you can no longer afford it—neither in coin nor in good judgment, obviously.”

With lingering shame, Garnett let his mind float back to that night, for he had not bumped into Drake at Oliver Landshire’s office, as he had led Cleome to believe.

“She does not love me,” Garnett had mourned, spilling his brandy and almost falling off his chair. “Perhaps, one day, I could have made her care a little . . . but now it’s impossible. Now that I’m to be a pauper.”

“Come now, man. You must think.” Drake swore under his breath. “Working for a wage is a far cry from being a pauper. You are educated. Your family is well connected. Work hard and perhaps you can become worthy of her.”

“According to the lady herself, it has nothing to do with my worthiness,” Garnett retorted. “She cared not a whit for her own reputation when she played that damned cribbage game with you. My
worthiness
—or lack thereof—would not be enough to turn her heart from me if she loved me. But you, sir, are a fool.”

“Indeed?” Drake was not amused.

“You had her in the palm of your hand and you let her get away. Do you not know that while it was merely a game to you, it was not so to her?”

The older man’s expression became guarded and Garnett wondered what he was hiding. At last Drake said, “You’re drunk. You should leave off the brandy for now.”

“You were merely playing a game to increase business at Stoneham House. Did you not know she was fully prepared to make good her debt? It was gentlemanly of you to let her out of it, but that makes you a fool of the ultimate degree.”

“I advise you to keep quiet about things that are none of your business.”

Garnett exploded. “You, sir, are an ass of the highest order!” he raged. “Do you not know she’s in love with you? Has the lovely Mignon so blinded you to the joy that could be yours? But for you, I might have had a chance with Cleome—and you do not even recognize her feelings!” With that, he stood unsteadily and made a lunge at Drake, accomplishing nothing but falling on his face. The other patrons of the pub erupted in laughter.

“That’s enough,” Drake said sternly, hauling him to his feet and steering him to the door. Garnett struggled but the big man simply tapped him on the chin and rendered him unconscious. When Garnett came to several hours later, the first thing he heard was the gentle slapping of waves upon the ship’s bow. He sat up with a start and then gripped his head in both hands. A sharp pain flashed behind his eyes and a sudden nausea gripped his gut. Groaning miserably, he lay back down.

“Relax,” a gruff voice instructed him. “You have not been shanghaied. But you might well have been.”

Garnett managed to get one eye open. “Oh . . . Drake.” He groaned again and tried to sit up, to no avail. “What did I . . . oh . . . I say, it’s all coming back now. Sorry, old man.” He opened the other eye and looked around to find himself in what appeared to be a ship’s cabin, and a most comfortably appointed one.

“Forget it.”

“I spoke of things I perhaps should not have.”

“You spoke of things which do not concern you. I heard what happened to your father at Crockford’s. As your unrequited affection for the delightful Lady Houghton-Parker is nothing new, I can only surmise your father’s misfortune is what has inspired you to risk life and limb in a waterfront pub.”

“Work?” Garnett repeated the word thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that. They want me to borrow from Cleome. My noble parents find her
quite
acceptable now.”

“I’m sure you will find her generous to a fault.”

“I have no doubt . . . when I find her. She was not at home. She has gone traveling but that cold fish of a butler wouldn’t say where. I had to go and get it out of Landshire.” Drake remained silent and Garnett continued. “She has gone up north, to Manchester, in search of her father’s kin.”

“She would. Is she making the journey alone?”

“Not at all. Landshire’s niece and a couple of maids have gone along. I reckon they’ll stop in at the Eagle’s Head. I must somehow get my father and Mamma up to Oakham—and soon, for he has also lost the house in town. They still have Easton Place, though not much with which to support it.”

“And you have no interest in honest work?” Drake asked.

“Well, Drake. It isn’t a matter of interest,” Garnett answered. “What would I do? After university, I was planning to try for a seat in Parliament. No chance of that now. Trouble is, I don’t know how to
do
anything.”

“I’m looking for a purchasing agent to represent me abroad,” Drake said. “I expect you know how to buy beautiful things.”

“Oh, indeed. What sorts of things?”

“Some items for Stoneham House, or my personal use. Some for my various enterprises. I’ll give you a list. I’m also seeking trade, so you’ll be looking into investment opportunities for me—businesses and properties.” Drake went to a small table where a full breakfast tray was set. He poured a cup of coffee and gave it to Garnett. “I need someone educated, polished and cultured. I believe the knack of making a good bargain will come to you.”

“Work, you say! Well, I guess it is better than being shanghaied. And I really must do something to keep Mamma and Papa in pheasant and
fois-gras
.”

“You would not be much in this country—perhaps half the year or less.”

“And how much does a purchasing agent earn, would you say?”

“It will be sufficient to your needs, with opportunities for bonuses when you save me money or discover some new product that makes me a profit.”

“I would be a fool to turn it down, and I thank you. But may I ask why you would trouble yourself on my account?”

Drake took his time responding. “You and your parents were kind to me when you had no need to be. And I know Cleome is fond of you. She would be happy to see you work your way through this misfortune.”

So, Garnett thought now, leaning on the railing as the
Lady Ramona
slid gracefully into her birth in Lisbon, he had become a purchasing agent for Drake Stoneham. His salary was enough to keep his mother and father from want and his work would keep him out of the country until he could find some way to overcome the financial devastation.

But even with Drake giving him the opportunity to share in the proceeds, it would take months, maybe years, before he would see any profit himself. Sir Laurence had lost a fortune in cash and jewels, as well as his income from mine shares. Garnett could never hope to replace that. If he thought for one minute that he had any chance of winning Cleome’s love, he would consider his present struggle worth it. But he knew Cleome would never look at him the way he had seen her look at Drake.

**

On most days the post came promptly, at ten in the morning, and Cleome waited anxiously for letters. She thought Garnett might write and she was desperate to hear from Edwina. She had no way of reaching Garnett, or she would get word to him to stop in and see the newlyweds if his travels took him anywhere near the Isola di Paresi. By the time her request reached him, however, he could be on his way back to England. The only possibility of getting a message to him was through Drake, who would know his itinerary. If she knew where Garnett was headed, she could perhaps arrange to have a note sent by a different ship, or perhaps by land, to his next port of call.

There had been only one letter from Edwina since she had arrived at her new home and she sounded reasonably content, if somewhat puzzled, by the strange young man she had married. Oliver hadn’t received even one letter, and he was terribly worried.

“Paolo is the soul of patience,” Edwina had written to Cleome. “We had a miserable journey and probably should have elected to go across the Channel and then by land, as the sea was rough and my husband was ill throughout the voyage. Now that he has the solid ground beneath his feet again, I believe he will soon recover. We have been married five weeks, Cleome, and he has yet to make me his wife. But he is kind and considerate and seems to delight in hearing me play. Well, now that we’re home I’m sure he’ll settle down.”

That was the only word Cleome had from her in over two months. She supposed she should be glad Paolo was taking time with Edwina, allowing her to get to know him before he pressed himself upon her. But somehow, it sounded all wrong. Count Paresi did not strike Cleome at all as the patient, unselfish type—but neither was he the eager bridegroom, apparently. She had sent three letters to Edwina but she’d had no reply.

Trying to get word to Garnett would mean paying a visit to Drake, or inviting him to Houghton Hall. Cleome stayed only occasionally in the townhouse. It was too close to Drake’s home, and to his gaming club. There was too much danger of running into him or seeing him with Mignon, and that she could not bear. Besides, the more accustomed she got to the old estate, the more she liked it. Cold and austere and a bit out of step with the times, it somehow matched her mood these days. Staring out the library window, waiting for the morning post, she wondered if her spirit . . . her heart . . . could survive a meeting with the master of Stoneham House. But if she didn’t hear from Edwina soon, she would have to take the chance.

**

It had been a difficult day and Edwina was exhausted. Her husband’s attitude had changed with the weather and there was no way of guessing what he might do next. It was the end of August and the heat and humidity were dreadfully oppressive. When the thunderstorm had begun, it had transformed Paolo from a mostly agreeable and occasionally entertaining man into a nervous, complaining child.

He had not been like that the first week they were installed in the villa, when they had shared the lilac bedroom. Even Paolo’s strange temperament then, when he’d held her close, caressing her with slow and gentle hands, yet still not making love to her, was preferable to his recent behavior. It was Garnett’s face she saw before her when she closed her eyes, but she wanted to be a good wife, and she thought, during that first week, that she would find the consummation of her marriage rather enjoyable.

Then one day, Paolo abruptly informed her that her own rooms were ready and she would sleep there from now on, unless he summoned her to their mutual bedchamber. His suite was in another wing of the huge mansion.

Shortly after she was thus exiled, she noticed that her husband seemed to disagree with everything she said and did and wore. He found fault with the food the servants brought him and he found fault with the servants themselves. Edwina had spent the afternoon trying to read to him, between his biting criticisms and complaints about the foul weather. He was bored but had a headache and wanted some form of entertainment to distract him from the rain. She had offered to play for him but his head hurt too much, he said, and no amount of noise would drown out the horrible thunder. She was careful not let it show that referring to her music as noise infuriated her.

At last, he had decided to take a nap and with a great sigh of relief, Edwina escaped to her room. All she wanted was a scented, soothing bath, a light meal, and an hour at her piano.

**

Garnett’s first attempt at negotiation was a disaster, for he ended up paying more for the wall hangings Drake wanted than they were worth. He had constantly to remind himself that he was no longer a gentleman and judged by how freely he spent his money. He was now a businessman—a sort of glorified clerk, really—whose only chance at increasing his earnings was developing the ability to save his employer unnecessary costs, or finding him some magic potion to sell.

He hated the life of a merchant. It was boring at best and embarrassing at the worst. It was a life for which he had no affinity and little ability—he would be happier tilling the fields. It was equally clear to him that he had to find a way to make a large sum of money all at once. He was not a gambler—he hadn’t the heart for it. He was not skilled at cards nor did he understand the dice. He had guaranteed Drake a year of his life and during that year, he must keep his eyes and ears open for a way out of this mess. He saw nothing in the future but a life of near poverty, and it was a life he would despise.

Now in Naples, he’d been traveling for three months and summer was drawing to a close. It made him homesick for London and old friends. At first, he’d been glad to get away from the chums he had known in the old life. But now he understood that he needed them. He must use the attributes for which Drake had employed him—charm, polish and education—to cultivate old friends in a new way. The world was changing as industry and science advanced and trade increased. He must, he realized, procure an investor from among the influential gentlemen he had known all his life, from among acquaintances he’d had little time for before.