Chapter Two
James Foxworth knew he was truly fortunate with what life had bestowed upon him. Wealth, inheritance—not only of title but of land, business connections, and wisdom, just to name a few. Far was he from the boy who came to visit Greystone Estate all those years ago to say goodbye to his childhood friend. Now, as a man, he was much wiser and more compassionate than the immature boy who had taken everything for granted.
Once completing his education, his father had sent him off to India for a glimpse at the inner workings of the family business. Initially, his plan was to stay in the home of a cousin for a month and then return home to begin asserting himself at the rank in which he had been born. However, that month became two, then six, then six became a year, until soon four years had passed. What he saw during his time there was a broader picture of the world than his cultured and sheltered upbringing could have ever shown him. He learned of life outside of himself, and in that he also found himself. Soon he found his nose not reaching as high as it once had, and his ears became more quick to listen to those around him, whether it be wealthy merchants with whom he met to do business or a simple man sitting next to him in a pub. Each person had a story to tell and each of their tales were far different than the ones before them.
He found that he, too, had a story to tell. It was a story of a young boy, held to such a high standard he could barely breathe, who felt something for a girl he knew not how to express. Seething with frustration for the lack of words to tell her how he felt, he instead informed her, with no lack of condescension and superiority, that he would be attending a boarding school and that they would, therefore, no longer be friends. Despite his attitude, she had proudly presented him with a rose as a way to express her feelings for him, which had only confused him even further. Thus, he had pulled her hair and then stomped on her flower, bringing tears to her eyes and earning the rebuke of his parents.
It was the long journey to school that allowed James the opportunity to truly reflect on how he had responded to her kind and loving gesture. However, he was much too proud and self-obsessed to deem it necessary to even write to her and apologize for his behavior. At that time, his main concern was for pleasing his father—a task that had proven difficult for the majority of his childhood years, for his father was a tyrant when it came to the discipline which he used with his son.
“You must always and forever conduct yourself as a Duke,” he was wont to say. “It matters not if you assume that role today or in fifty years, you will be punctual with your time, astute in your studies, and firm in your decisions. If you are unable to maintain these strict rules, you will never be worthy of the title of Duke of Pillberton.”
His marks and attendance at boarding school had pleased the Third Duke of Pillberton immensely; however, the appointment he appropriated as head of his father’s shipping business in India had made the man ecstatic; to such a degree that James was allowed to forgo University and continue in the family business of shipping suppliers, something that was unheard of for someone of James’s caliber.
But whether it was at the boarding school or working with a ship’s crew in a storm—for he would not be one of those men such as the likes of his father who reigned over his business from behind a desk—his thoughts always returned to one thing—or in this case, person. Sarah Crombly.
And now, here before him stood a woman who as a young girl was once pretty but was now more beautiful than any flower that could be found throughout all of England. Her voice was pleasant, the note to her pitch stirring feelings he had not known how to name all those years ago, yet now he recognized as a great affection. How he regretted his squandering of the time they had spent together as children.
As his lips brushed the top of Sarah's hand, he scolded himself inwardly for his actions on that fateful day, one of which had brought her to tears. She was the same Sarah today as she was then—beautiful, smart, and not afraid to speak her mind, much like she just had. Her whisper was sharper than any sword he had held, cutting him deeply.
“Your act that day so long ago was as barbaric as the ancient men about whom I have read.”
When she removed her hand from his, he acknowledged Mrs. Crombly with a nod and a smile. However, his eyes caught Sarah’s glare. Her cheeks were a crimson red and her breathing was off, such was her anger.
As he walked away from Sarah and her mother, he held his head high, stood tall and proud, and returned the various greetings and smiles other guests gave him just as would be expected of a man in his position. However, deep inside he felt all but proud; he was worried. After all these years, he had hoped Sarah would have forgotten that retched incident, but alas she had not. Now his chance to share with her his true feelings had dissipated, and all his years of thinking of her had been in vain.
He had dreamed on his return to England, how he would arrive at Greystone Estate, entertain her with tales of his time abroad, and win her heart once again. When word came to him she had not wed, his enthusiasm was great, and he counted the days until this night. Though he had worked many business deals too numerous to count, had talked his way to stand in front of people of renowned wealth even far greater than his own, and even had spoken with representatives of the King, he found himself lost as to what to say or do about this situation of the heart.
Well, he would do what he could to not allow his judgment to get clouded again. He would stand tall and find a way to win the woman’s heart no matter what the cost.
“A man should not walk around empty-handed,” Mr. Crombly said, breaking James from his thoughts.
James nodded in greeting. His slurred speech and swaying stance spoke volumes of the amount of alcohol the man had consumed this night, and his reddened eyes narrowed as if he found it difficult to see clearly. “I do believe you are right,” James replied. “Brandy would be wonderful on such a fine evening; do you not agree?”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Mr. Crombly said and then motioned to a footman, who quickly brought a tray over. Mr. Crombly handed a glass to James and took one for himself.
James took a sip of the strong yet smooth brandy as Mr. Crombly downed his in one gulp. James chuckled. “Many a night I thought about Greystone Estate when I was abroad,” he said as he glanced around the ballroom full of people. It was not necessarily a lie, per se, but rather a broader explanation of what, or whom, he had thought of while away. “I find it to remain as beautiful as I remembered.” His eyes scanned the crowd and landed on Sarah. She stood out from the crowd, her beauty drawing the jealous gazes of the women and the lust of several men.
“No doubt you have seen my precious artwork,” Mr. Crombly replied. “Though not priceless, it is a great fortune indeed.”
James smiled. The man has a priceless piece of art, James thought as he looked at Sarah. However, it is not one that can be put on display on any wall or in any gallery. Then he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to her father. He certainly would not be caught staring at her. She had already rejected any moment of her time with him, and he vowed he would do nothing to make it even worse. “Very fine, indeed,” he said aloud and then lifted his glass. “I can see your fortune is growing, and to that I drink to your success.”
Mr. Crombly grabbed another glass from the tray of a passing footman, lifted his glass in response and then downed it in one swift gulp followed by a loud burp. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said with a broad smile.
“Not at all,” James replied. “So, I take it that business is going well for you.”
“That it is!” came Mr. Crombly’s excited reply. “I just secured a trade with some merchants in Scotland for wool. I am awaiting word from another merchant in London who is looking into my textile business, as well.” One thing James remembered about the man was his tendency to brag, and though some things had changed in the eight years James had been gone, this man’s boasting had not. James had heard that the ‘textile business’ of which Mr. Crombly spoke was little more than wool sold in bulk to spinners. The man did not own his own sheep, so he purchased the wool and then turned around and sold it as he bought it. He was more a middle man than anything else.
“Very good, sir,” James said. “I, too, am expanding my business. As a matter of fact, after spending several years in India, it has come to my attention that there is great need for more wool there. Perhaps we can discuss an arrangement in the near future.” John had not necessarily lied, for India was looking at procuring more foreign textiles; however, wool was not necessarily at the top of their list of needs. In reality, James had been in contact with another man about wool, one who could supply what he needed directly and at a much more reasonable cost. However, any excuse to return to Greystone Estate and see Sarah would justify any losses me might incur.
Mr. Crombly’s eyes lit up; well, as much as they could in his drunken state. “I would be honored, My Lord. I have some time now, if you would like. Come, let us retire to my game room. Such affairs should not to be discussed in the open.” He grabbed James by the arm without waiting for a response and practically dragged him toward a side door.
Though James had not meant that they should meet this evening, he saw an opportunity and would not allow it to pass. He did not want to leave and lose sight of Sarah after so many years of only dreaming of her. However, he knew it would be best to keep her father happy and perhaps earn more invitations to visit, perhaps even to the point where he would see her alone. So, he followed the man out of the room, and they made their way down a short hallway, the footman sent out ahead of them to prepare the lights. Within moments, they were seated at a card table, a deck of cards and a rack of chips set up in the middle.
Mr. Crombly snapped his fingers, and the footman brought over two more brandies. Once the glasses were set before them, he turned and smiled at James. “Now, please indulge me in more of your business ventures,” he said.
Though James did not like to brag, he made an exception and began to tell not only of the business arrangements he had already made, but also those he planned to make. Mr. Crombly requested two more brandies before James had finished his first, who waved off the footman when a new glass was offered. Sarah’s father did not seem to notice.
For some time, they spoke only of business, Mr. Crombly’s stories growing grander with each telling. James shared some of his stories of his time in India, but the older man appropriated most of the conversation, interjecting his own anecdotes to outshine anything James shared. More than once, James’s mind wandered, until Mr. Crombly said, “I’ve seen you eying the cards, my boy.”
James ignored the man’s reversion to address him as a boy. “I enjoy a game of cards as much as the next man.”
“Then how about a few hands to close out the evening before we return?” Mr. Crombly slurred.
James had played more than his fair share of cards and the thought of a gamble would be nice, though he doubted the challenge the man would give. “Twenty pounds for a starting wager?” James asked, reaching into his inside coat pocket.
Mr. Crombly’s eyes widen at the large stack of notes he withdrew. “Yes, that is acceptable. But I must warn you, I am renowned for more than just my business expertise.”
“I appreciate the warning,” James said as he tried to maintain a serious face. “I will be very careful.”
Mr. Crombly won the first round, and then the second. When he won the third, he gathered the winnings to him. “You see? I don’t lie. Care to up the stakes?”
“How much do you propose?” James asked, undoing the buttons of his jacket to allow himself to be comfortable.
Mr. Crombly eyed the brandy set before him and took a sip, much to James’s surprise. However, the man’s unsteady hand gave away how drunk he really was. “Forty pounds.”
James nodded, and the next round commenced with James winning, bringing a snort from Mr. Crombly.
“I say, my boy, you are good.”
The night continued, each man winning or losing based on bets and folds, and the brandy kept coming—at least to Mr. Crombly. James kept his head about him. He was never one to gamble when he was unable to think straight. Too often it led to upsetting results.
After losing ten hands in a row, Mr. Crombly sighed. “I’m afraid I am out of cash,” he said sadly.
“Then perhaps we should call it a night?” James said as he moved to gather up his winnings.
He had not gotten the notes to his coat pocket before Mr. Crombly said, “No, I have a better idea. Let’s move on to something a little more substantial. Give me a chance to win back my money.”
James’s interest was piqued. “Very well. What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s make this interesting,” the older man said confidently as he placed a slip of paper on the table. “How about a summer cottage in Cornwall?”
James’s eyebrows shot up. “That is very substantial, indeed,” he said as the man before him swayed in his seat. James doubted he would be able to see the cards let alone place a bet. However, the idea intrigued him. “Very well. And I will add my cottage in Devon to my part of that bet,” James said, taking the piece of paper from the footman and writing his promise on it. Each man pushed his paper into the middle of the table.
The hand was dealt and Mr. Crombly sank into his chair. The look of confidence he had an hour ago was gone and a look of defeat was now in its place. “I…I didn’t win?” he said dejectedly.
As James went to grab his winnings, the older man’s hand shot out. James glanced down at the wrist the man had grabbed, and Mr. Crombly quickly retreated, followed by a string of apologies. “I had promised Jane we would go next month for a visit,” he said in a panicked voice. “I cannot lose such a wager.” If this had been any other man handling him in this way, James would have pummeled the man. But this was Mr. Crombly. If he were to attack the father of the woman he loved, then any chance of him asking for her hand would be ruined.
“A bet is a bet,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed as an idea began to form. “If you care to win it back, you may. Perhaps another deed you hold?” He knew the man owned no other properties outside of Greystone Estate, and even James would not accept such collateral.
Mr. Crombly shook his head. “I do not own any more,” he replied dejectedly as he stared at the floor. “My money is all tied up in the businesses. Cornwall was my only luxury.” Then his head shot up. “Unless you would consider one of my works of art.”
James swallowed hard, his heartbeat picking up a notch. Yes, there was one piece of art that he wanted, one for which James would risk it all. Perhaps it was a desperate action, but Sarah had made it perfectly clear she had no interest in allowing him the opportunity to win her over. “At this moment, I own not only your estate in Cornwall, but numerous contracts as well. The debt is great, Mr. Crombly, and yet there is a piece of art I would allow you to wager to win everything you lost, as well as what I brought to the table.”
The man’s back straightened and he motioned for the footman to refill their drinks.
“What is it you want? Please, man, name your price.”
“I would like your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
The air stood still as Mr. Crombly leaned back in his chair with a grunt as though he had been struck in the stomach. “Her hand in marriage?” he repeated, his brows crunched.
James had learned that strategies that worked in business worked just as well in gambling. So, he stood up as if to leave, knowing full well that Mr. Crombly would be unable to pass up the opportunity to win back what he had lost. “Well, thank you for the evening. Give Mrs. Crombly my best,” James said, standing up and reaching once again for the money and the deeds.
“Wait! I will do it. What are the terms?”
James suppressed a smile and retook his seat. “If you win, not only is all this returned, but I will match its value with my own holdings.”
“And if I lose?”
“Sarah will be my wife,” came James’s reply. “However, I will return your deed to your home in Cornwall. Consider it a gift of thankfulness.”
Mr. Crombly nodded, then taking his glass, downed another brandy. “Very well, then. Let’s get to it.”
The cards were dealt, no words exchanged, and both men checked their cards. It did not take James long to see the look of defeat on the older man’s face.
“If you will excuse me,” James said when Mr. Crombly dropped his cards on the table in disbelief. “Please let Sarah know I will be by tomorrow to discuss the arrangements that will have to be made.”
“I will,” her father whispered.
James collected his winnings and put them in the pocket of his coat, leaving only the paper that signed over the ownership to the Cornwall home. The money, the deeds, all of it was trivial. He had won something far greater than all of it combined.
Sarah.