Chapter 15
Eve should have been thinking about her upcoming meetings on Lambeth Street. She should have been filled with a deserved terror at being outside the Hell and Sin. The only news now written in the newspapers pertained to the Missing Heiress. The tale of a devoted brother, a powerful duke, doing all within his power to locate his cherished sister, had fed the ton’s need for gossip. According to those columns, Gerald had also taken to hiring Bow Street Runners to have her found.
And yet, the following morning, seated on the bench of Calum’s well-sprigged coach, Eve sat in breathless anticipation thinking of only Calum Dabney.
As a young girl, she’d had a reverent awe for Calum. He’d been fierce and unafraid, despite the peril he faced every day, but he’d never treated her with unkindness for her birthright. He’d treated her with more kindness than even Gerald, her own brother, had ever shown her. More, he’d treated her not as a duke’s daughter, not a wealthy heiress . . . just a girl. And for it, he’d captured a sliver of her heart.
Years later, Calum Dabney held her in thrall for altogether different reasons: for the future he’d built himself and for so many others who found employment at the Hell and Sin, for giving her and other women the opportunity to take on honest work, when most men of any station were content to relegate ladies to the role of dutiful wife and broodmare.
To Calum, she was not simply the Ugly Heiress, valuable only because of the fortune her father had attached to her. Instead, she was a woman he’d found capable, whose judgment he trusted enough to have her visit the men whom he conducted business with. Yet, unlike her ruthless brother and late father, he didn’t see her strictly as the keeper of his books. He asked about her interests and her past, as one who seemed to genuinely care about the person she was and had been.
And he desires me . . .
She touched gloved fingertips to lips that tingled with the remembrance of Calum’s embrace. His kisses. His arms wrapped about her.
Eve slid her eyes closed. Perhaps she had traces of Gerald’s wickedness in her soul, after all.
The click of the door latch filled the carriage. Heart thudding, she looked over in breathless anticipation. Disappointment assailed her. “Oh,” she blurted as Mr. Thorne’s tall, slender frame filled the entrance. You nitwit with your loose, runaway tongue.
Mr. Thorne gave her a long look.
“Good afternoon,” she said quickly as he hauled himself inside. Perhaps he’d not heard her overall disappointment at finding Calum’s company unexpectedly replaced.
Calum’s partner settled himself onto the opposite bench and recoiled. He sniffed the air before settling his gaze on her. But not before she detected the manner in which he wrinkled his nose.
She sighed. Having applied some of the mixture she’d made late last evening, she had her noxious odor back.
“Did you expect someone else, Mrs. Swindell?” He shot a hand up, and the carriage rolled onward.
If it were possible to die by blushing, the heat scorching Eve’s entire being was sure to swallow her up. “Yes. No. No,” she repeated more calmly. “Forgive me. I was merely”—disappointed—“surprised. I thought Cal . . . Mr. Dabney,” she hurried to correct, but not before she saw the astute glint in his eyes, “might accompany me.” Stop. Talking. She curled her toes into the soles of her boots. What indication had Calum given that he’d join her? You simply expected it—hoped for it.
Unnerved by Adair’s probing stare, but grateful he didn’t pursue her erroneously drawn conclusion, Eve shifted her focus to the slight crack in the curtains. She took in the passing streets—dangerous ones that would send her father rolling in his final resting place if he’d seen just where Eve had ended up. Yet, how much greater the danger was for her in Grosvenor Square than this end of London that Calum had, and still did, call home. Despite logic and reason battling for control, her attention was drawn back to the proprietor unapologetically eyeing her in silence.
“Have you known Mr. Dabney long?” What was the story of their connection? Had he been a loyal friend in every sense, when Eve had failed him?
“A person asking questions is a soign of danger,” Adair retorted, slipping into a coarse Cockney that revealed the truth of his roots.
“Only if the person asking them intends harm.” Which she didn’t. Long ago, she’d brought Calum pain, and coward that she was, she feared ever learning the details about what had happened to him after Gerald’s interference. Her solemn rejoinder froze the proprietor on his seat.
“’e’s my brother,” he finally said, reluctantly, in graveled tones.
She scrambled forward on the bench. “His brother?” As a boy he’d spoken of kin, but never given her any specifics. Now she knew that had been a wise bid to protect them.
“Met on the streets,” he clarified. “Became family.” His eyes dared her to question that connection.
Eve fiddled with the faded satin strings of her Swedish bonnet. “Blood does not family make,” she said softly. Kit had spent more time away than with her. Gerald would have sold her to Satan for thirty pieces of silver if it suited him in a given moment. She was not one who’d ever question familial bonds.
Silence fell between them, with the distant shouts of street vendors and the rumbling wheels filling the otherwise quiet. Capturing her chin in hand, Eve reshifted her attention to the narrow crack in the red velvet curtains.
“’e’s loyal.”
She stilled.
“Not a more loyal person in the whole of England. Most men and women become jaded and broken from doing the things Calum did, and seeing what he saw . . .” Newgate. A spasm racked her chest, squeezing the muscles in a vise. “. . . but ’e’s never been bitter. Still manages to smile and care. And Oi’ll not see him hurt because of that kindness.”
“He is fortunate to have you.” She spoke around a ball of emotion clogging her throat.
“We’re fortunate to ’ave one another,” he said gruffly, shifting on his bench.
The carriage drew to a stop as they arrived at their destination on Lambeth. With the words and warnings shared by Calum’s brother ringing in her head, her books held in one arm, she allowed him to help her down. No doubt, were he to learn the truth of her identity, he’d gladly leave her on the streets of Lambeth without another glance. And with good reason. Her family had wronged Calum, and having enlisted Gerald’s help against Calum’s protestations that day, Eve was very much guilty of those crimes.
“Mr. Bowen is a mean bastard,” he shared as they started along the pavement. They moved through throngs of passersby, while raucous calls filtered around the busy streets. “Wouldn’t give a pence off a shipment if the king ordered it.”
“Why would you remain with him?” she puzzled aloud, comfortable with this safe talk away from mention of Calum and into matters of business.
“Because his brew is the best, and we’ve had two others before him sending us broken shipments, paid off by our rival.”
Ahh. “So, it’s made you wary to trust another merchant,” she pieced together.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Thorne frown. “Sometimes familiarity is safe.”
“And sometimes it’s costly.” As it had, according to the records she’d reviewed of past and present liquor suppliers used by the club, proved to be. Given the current state of their finances, every penny mattered.
They arrived at a small establishment sandwiched between two taller shops. The carved wood sign featured gold lettering of far greater quality than any of the others on the street. It was a telling mark of the proprietor’s self-importance—and his success. Mr. Thorne reached past and pressed the handle, admitting Eve ahead of him.
He closed the door with a soft click behind her. Tugging off her gloves, Eve glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The tidy inside with its neatly arranged desks and seating served as evidence of Mr. Bowen’s wealth.
A graying gentleman, elegantly attired in sapphire breeches and a fawn jacket, entered through the back of the shop. “Mr. Thorne,” he welcomed; his slight singsong tones spoke of his Welsh origins. “How very good to see you, sir.”
Returning the greeting, Calum’s brother motioned to Eve. “May I present our new bookkeeper, Mrs. Swindell.”
The slight tensing of the shopkeeper’s mouth indicated precisely what he thought of dealing with a female on matters of business. Another wave of appreciation for Calum, who freely hired women on his staff, filled her. Bringing her shoulders back, Eve drew on every lesson handed her as a duke’s daughter. “Mr. Thorne, if you’ll excuse us while we meet?” She leveled a hard stare on Mr. Bowen. “Given my review of the books, and your exorbitant rates, I expect we have much to discuss.”
The liquor distributor scowled and looked to the man just beyond her shoulder. “What’s this about, Thorne?”
Eve slapped her worn leather gloves together, answering for him. “This is about your escalating prices, without consideration for the value of our business, and a lack of any noticeable benefits.”
The graying man sputtered, “I provide some of the finest brandy in England, and you’d come here and question my product?”
She took a step closer. “By your own words . . . some of the finest. Not the finest,” she pointed out with her most winning smile. “Therefore, there is room for negotiation.”
Her bold rebuttal was met with silence from the two men.
If Calum’s brother countered her here, he’d cut off her legs with which to negotiate.
After several moments, Adair tipped his hat. “I believe I’ll leave you to Mrs. Swindell, then.” With that, he claimed a spot over by the door, his meaning powerfully clear—Eve was in charge.
“Well, Mrs. Swindell”—the shopkeeper folded his arms at his chest—“what do you want?” he asked, all earlier traces of good humor and politeness now gone.
Eve stalked over to a nearby desk and, uninvited, took a seat. From too many precarious dealings with Gerald, she’d come to appreciate the need to lay command to a situation where you can. “I’ll keep this brief.” She set her gloves down and drew out her journal. Opening the leather volume, she flipped through her notes. “Your rates have increased on an average of five pounds each month.”
“Depends on what Mr. Black orders,” he sputtered, stomping around the other side and sitting down hard.
“Then why, with last month’s shipment reduced by five cases, did the rate remain the same?” she demanded, turning her notes around for his perusal.
Cheeks flushed, he didn’t even glance at it. “What do you want?” he repeated in whiny tones.
She dropped her elbows on the edge of the table. “I want a set delivery rate on a contracted basis for the year, subject to our breaking the agreement without penalty. All the additional payments from the months you’ve overcharged the club will go toward future bills.” She paused. “And I want reduced rates made on purchase orders over fifty cases.”
The proprietor seethed. Fury and outrage burning bright in his eyes. “Who do you think you are, setting out to change the terms laid out by Mr. Dabney and Mr. Black? If they’ve been content, then I’ll not answer to changes laid out by”—he paused and scraped an icy stare over her—“you.”
She tipped her lips up in an aloof smile. “Ah, but you see, Mr. Bowen. I’ve been placed in charge of the liquor expenditures, and unlike the proprietors, I am a new member of the staff with no allegiance to you. I doubt I shall have any problems finding another liquor producer willing to meet my terms.” On that, she grabbed her things and shoved to her feet.
She made it no farther than five feet.
“Wait,” he called in beleaguered tones. “Fine,” he gritted out. “But not every fifty cases. Every fifty-fifth.”
“Forty-five,” she countered.
“But that is not the way negotiating works, Mrs. Swindell,” he cried.
Eve favored him with another grin. “Ah, but that is because this is not truly a negotiation, Mr. Bowen.”
“Fine, fine,” he said when she reached Mr. Thorne’s side. “I’ll agree to your blasted terms.”
“Splendid.” Filled with an excited sense of triumph, she marched through the door held open by Calum’s brother. Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to men who either didn’t want to deal with her or didn’t take seriously any appointments with her. Never once had Calum and his brother shown that small-mindedness. Their family rose all the more in her esteem.
As soon as they stepped outside, a sharp gust of wind slapped at them, whipping their cloaks together. “Brava, Mrs. Swindell. Brava,” Mr. Thorne said with reluctant appreciation.
Not breaking stride, Eve sketched a smart curtsy. A gust of wind wrenched her bonnet back, and she caught the corners to set it to rights. “Why, thank you.”
Adair pointed ahead. “Our next appointment? Everett.” He brought them to a stop outside another establishment. “Stingier than Bowen. Meaner.”
At his caveat, she cast him a wry grin. “I assure you, Mr. Thorne, I know mean. I can certainly—” Her gaze collided with a tall figure winding his way through the streets. Elegantly attired, blond hair so pale it was nearly white.
Lord Flynn . . .
She froze. With one glance in her direction, he’d find her—and her fate and future would be sealed. A life as Lord Flynn’s wife. Nor was there a doubt that if she returned home, either of her free will or against her volition, Gerald’s friend would finish what he’d begun, and this time, he would succeed in raping her.
Her teeth chattered, knocking together loudly, as her senses flooded with the remembered horror of his attack—and intentions. Oh, God. He was here. Panic and terror made her tongue heavy in her mouth. Whether you want it or not, I’m going to swive you . . .
A stinging drop of rain pinged her nose. Followed by another and another. Until the sky opened in a torrent of stinging rain. She blinked slowly. Rain. It was raining. Rain. Jerked back to the present, Eve fought the wind for control of her bonnet. At last managing to grab that scrap, she jammed it promptly into place.
Lord Flynn forgotten for a new, more pressing, danger, Eve stole a peek down at her hands. Her ink-stained hands. Oh, God. Stomach lurching, she yanked her gaze up to gauge whether he’d seen anything out of place.
Calum’s brother reached past her and opened the door.
Eve stumbled ahead of him.
“Mrs. Swindell?” Calum’s brother asked questioningly.
“Please perform the necessary introductions,” she requested in crisp tones, “and permit me to handle this as you did the last.” How was her voice so steady?
Mr. Thorne eyed her a long moment and nodded.
And as introductions were made and Eve commenced her meeting with the nasty Mr. Everett, reality intruded. Her time with Calum was temporary, and until she reached her majority, she was in peril. And there was no one to rely on—most especially not Calum Dabney.