Finally, the directors agreed to a price and conditions that Kit and Wayland were prepared to accept, including a stipulation they had pressed for—an indefinite option to purchase the warehouse outright after a period of two years.
While Wayland had a thirty percent stake in the company, Kit remained the majority owner. Consequently, when Finch prepared and presented the lease, it was Kit who signed first, then he passed the document and pen to Wayland while doing his best to conceal the elation that filled him.
They’d made their first major commitment and had secured the space they needed to forge on.
Wayland, also battling a grin, signed with a flourish, and the secretary and chairman quickly countersigned.
Finch duly presented Kit with their copy of the lease.
“Thank you.” Kit glanced at the document, then folded it. As he tucked it into his coat pocket, he looked at the directors and smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“I must insist that the pleasure is all ours, your lordship.” Hemmings rose and, beaming genially, waved toward a nearby sideboard. “Can I offer you a small libation to celebrate our deal?”
Kit and Wayland accepted glasses of brandy and stood and chatted about the city—extracting as much useful information as they could. After the other three directors made their excuses and left, Kit turned to Finch. “Although our tenancy doesn’t commence until the beginning of next week, Mr. Cobworth and I would like to take a quick look at the inside of the warehouse. While I’ve been inside before, Mr. Cobworth hasn’t, and to ensure we order the correct timbers for the initial fitting out, he needs to note the placement of the beams.”
“If we could gain access for half an hour today, that would be ideal,” Wayland put in.
Finch and Hemmings exchanged a long glance—long enough for Kit to wonder what unvoiced thoughts passed between them. Then, lips primming, Finch nodded. “If you can indulge us regarding the time—will five-thirty this evening suit?”
Kit looked at Wayland and arched his brows.
“It’ll be close to dark by then.” Wayland’s faint frown suggested he was thinking rapidly. “But I can pick up a few lanterns.” Expression clearing, he met Finch’s gaze. “Yes—that will do.”
“Excellent.” Hemmings clapped his palms together. “We’ll meet you outside the warehouse at five-thirty, then.”
Wondering why they couldn’t go now, Kit asked, “Is there any difficulty with us taking a look around the outside earlier? Now, for instance.”
Again, Hemmings’s and Finch’s gazes met, then Finch cleared his throat and explained, “We haven’t yet broken the news to the charity that’s been using the space, and we won’t be able to do so until tomorrow, when their manager is in their office. It would be...awkward if those at the warehouse were to learn of the situation prior to the manager being informed.”
“Ah—I see.” At least as far as them going to the warehouse now. Kit inclined his head to both men. “In that case, we’ll hie off to find some lanterns and will see you gentlemen outside the soon-to-be Cavanaugh Yachts workshop in...just over an hour.”
Finch’s and Hemmings’s faces lit with what Kit saw as pleasure tinged with relief. With a return to their celebratory mood, the pair farewelled Kit and Wayland, vowing to meet them shortly.
Kit was inwardly shaking his head as, with Wayland beside him, he stepped onto the pavement outside the Dock Company building.
For his part, Wayland was actually shaking his head.
Kit halted and eyed his friend. “What?”
Wayland shrugged. “Nervy lot.” He looked around. “I think the nearest hardware store is that way.” He pointed down the quay.
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Kit fell in beside Wayland as he led the way.
* * *
When, an hour later, Kit and Wayland rounded the end of Princes Street and walked onto the stretch of waterfront known as the Grove, it was to see Finch and Hemmings waiting farther along, outside the door of the third warehouse from the corner.
Evening had fallen and was edging toward night, and the slap of wavelets against the pilings was increasingly audible as other workaday noises faded. The row of warehouses fronted directly onto the Grove, with a narrow, cobbled lane separating their façades from the rough grass beneath the line of trees that gave the area its name. Beyond the trees, lamps were spaced along the river’s edge, but the warehouses lay far enough back that only faint light reached their doors.
Wayland huffed. “Just as well we got these lanterns.”
They’d bought four hurricane lanterns, reasoning that they would surely need them as the days grew shorter.
As they approached the warehouse, Kit nodded in greeting. “Hemmings. Finch.”
Hemmings smiled and half bowed.
“My lord. Mr. Cobworth.” Having already unlocked the padlock that secured the doors, Finch lifted the latch and drew one of the double doors back.
Kit caught the edge of the second door and hauled it wide.
Wayland walked inside, then halted and, through the dimness, looked around. After several seconds, he bent and set down the two lanterns he’d carried and crouched to light them.
Kit stopped a pace away. He put the two lanterns he’d carried beside Wayland’s two. When light flared and Wayland replaced the glass surround on the first lantern, then turned to light the next, Kit picked up the first lantern, raised it, and played the beam around the gloomy space.
Although his hands remained busy lighting the lanterns, Wayland looked up, too. After a moment, he said, “The floor’s good—nice and even and the planks are well-laid and the surface smooth. As for layout...offices to the right, along the side wall. Receptionist and foreman in one closer to the door, then the rest of that space is mine.”
By which Wayland meant that his design studio would take up the space behind the front office. Kit grunted in agreement; as Wayland gave his attention to the lanterns, Kit turned and swept the lantern’s beam over the other side of the warehouse.
The doors were off center, closer to the right, leaving the bulk of the warehouse to the left. The space was surprisingly uncluttered; there was no detritus—no ropes, broken struts, hessian, or any of the usual accumulated rubbish one tended to find in the corners of such buildings.
Wayland rose, a lantern in his hand; standing beside Kit, he directed the lantern upward, splashing light across the beams overhead. After a moment of studying them, Wayland murmured, “Good call choosing this place. Those are solid.” With the lantern, he traced one of the three main beams across to the wall, playing light over the upright support there, then he turned and examined the support on the other side. Then he flashed Kit a grin. “We’ll be able to set our pulleys up there and lift our hulls with no problem at all.”
“Excellent.” Kit peered deeper into the shadows to the left and spotted a row of raised desks lined up along the side wall. They looked like a conglomeration of clerk’s desks and draftsman’s desks with sloping tops. A goodly number of tall stools stood clustered at one end of the line.
“Presumably from the charity,” Wayland said. “The desks look to be in too-good condition to be discards.”
Surveying the desks, Kit murmured, “It must be some sort of charity for the indigent. I assume they’ll take them away.” Kit turned back to survey the area they’d elected to make