Philip studied his old friend and partner. Justin had stood beside him at his wedding and at Arabella’s funeral. He balled his hand into a fist. His wife should have had the chance to raise their son and attend to their house. Now, it fell to the people Philip paid to assist him. Not the most ideal of situations and one he would soon correct.
Straightening in the chair, he laced his fingers over his stomach. It wasn’t Miss Townsend’s disturbance which troubled him now, as much as the opportunity she presented. His father had trained him to assess a client in a matter of seconds. He’d measured up Miss Townsend and, despite the ridiculousness of her attempted threat, found her useful qualities continued to tip the scales in her favour.
It was madness and he knew it. He should recommend her and the mother to Halcyon House, his charitable organisation, and be done with them both, not continue to entertain the plan developing in his mind. He’d chosen Arabella with his heart, ignoring her frailty, believing it wouldn’t come between them. He’d been a fool and in the end their love had killed her.
Small footsteps pattered down the long hallway outside his bedroom door before steady, larger ones followed. In a moment, he’d help Mrs Marston get Thomas back to sleep, but first there was business to discuss.
‘I have another plan in mind, Justin.’ He picked up Robert Townsend’s contract. It was sheer luck he’d decided to bring it upstairs with the others, as was his habit, to review before bed or if he was restless in the middle of the night. He handed it to his friend. ‘Find out everything you can about his niece.’
‘I knew I wouldn’t get off so easy tonight.’ He rose from the chair and set it back by the wall, then plucked the paper from Philip’s hand.
‘Speak to anyone who might know her from her lodgings and from the neighbourhood where the draper shop used to be, I’m sure you can discover its location.’
‘You know I can.’ He folded the contract and slid it into his pocket.
‘Get a sense of her reputation, character and situation. Find out any and every detail you can and bring it to me as soon as possible.’
‘Is she going to become a client?’
Philip rose, eager to see to his son. ‘No. She might become my wife.’
Laura stared at the worn and splintered door, frozen where she stood, her uncle’s dirty tankard in one hand, a cleaning rag in the other.
Someone had knocked. No one ever knocked here. It couldn’t be good.
She jumped again as the wood rattled beneath the fist of whoever was on the other side. She set the tankard down and hurried to the door, eager to silence the person for fear they’d wake her mother.
‘Who is it?’ she hissed through a crack near the centre.
‘Mr Rathbone.’
She jolted away from the wood. It’d been two days since she’d fled from his house and there was nothing he could want from her, unless he’d changed his mind about seeing her gaoled. The constable might be outside with him now. She twisted the rag around one hand, then let go. No, the constable would have announced himself. She’d heard him banging on enough doors in the building to know. Mr Rathbone must want something else, but what? The cotton. Maybe he’d finally seen the sense in her offer, found a way to buy back the bolt and was here to discuss an arrangement.
She pulled open the door to find him standing on the other side. Unlike the few others who came here, he didn’t clutch a scented handkerchief to his face or look around as though expecting a rat to pounce. He stood exactly as he had two nights ago, businesslike, determined, a dark-blue redingote falling straight from his shoulders to cover his lithe but sturdy body. Her eyes trailed the length of him, from the low hat covering his almost black hair to the tips of his polished boots. Taking in this groomed and dressed moneylender, she tried not to imagine him without his clothes. If she hadn’t seen him in such a fashion, she would be more terrified of him now, not mesmerised by the way his high white collar traced the angle of his jaw to where it narrowed to his chin.
‘May I come in?’ His crisp but polite words snapped her out of her musing.
‘Yes, of course.’ She waved him in with the rag, closing the door behind him.
In four steps he reached the centre of the room. The faint, citrus scent of his bergamot cologne struck Laura harder than the stench of the street coming in through the window. The richness of the scent reminded her of the perfume shop situated next to her family’s old shop and for a moment took her away from the filth permeating her life.
Mr Rathbone glanced down at the table where the dirty tankard sat, then turned to face her, his scrutiny pulling her back into the mire. ‘Miss Townsend.’
‘Shh...’ Laura gestured to silence him, then caught sight of her dirty fingernails and lowered her hand as fast as she’d raised it. ‘I must ask you to speak quietly. My mother is resting. She slept poorly last night and every night before.’
He nodded and removed his hat, holding it against his left side. ‘Miss Townsend, I’ve come to speak to you about a business proposal.’
She twisted the rag tight between her hands. ‘You’ve come to accept my offer? You found a way to retrieve the cotton bolt and return it to me?’
‘No. As I told you, it is no longer in my possession.’
‘But—’
He raised a silencing hand. ‘Mr Townsend knew the consequences when he took my money and he will pay them. He is no longer my concern or yours.’
She perched one fist on her hip. ‘Then what is our concern?’
He shifted the hat to his other hand so it rested against his right thigh instead of his left. If she thought the man capable of emotion, she might say he was nervous. ‘You managed your father’s draper business before Mr Townsend assumed control?’
‘Before my uncle stole it from us,’ she corrected, more curious than cautious.
‘You kept accounts, inventory, credit?’
‘I did.’ She didn’t hide her pride. ‘My father thought it better for me to learn the business than attend a lady’s school.’
‘I know by the speed at which you comprehended the agreement that you can read and understand contracts and your business plan indicates you can write.’
‘A fine hand.’ She wondered where this line of questioning was leading. Maybe he’d taken pity on her and come to offer work. She smoothed one hand over her hair, wishing he’d given her some notice and a chance to make herself more presentable.
‘And you are well, your mother’s illness does not extend to you?’
‘I am very hearty, thank you. My mother broke her leg a few years ago and, though it healed, she’s afflicted with rheumatism. It’s nothing food and heat wouldn’t ease, but since we have neither, she suffers.’
His eyes dropped down, covering the length of her in a heartbeat before his head rose a touch as though appraising her collateral. She couldn’t imagine what he saw since she wore no jewellery and her dress was too old to be of much value to even a secondhand-clothes merchant. ‘There is no one, apart from your mother and Mr Townsend, to make a claim on you?’
Worry coiled inside her, fuelled by the memory of him parading before her naked without shame. ‘If you’ve come to make an immodest proposal, you can leave.’
‘There’s nothing untoward in what I’m about to suggest, Miss Townsend. After a great deal of thought, I have another