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‘Give him a chance to explain himself, please.’ The brother waved a hand towards him, tossing him a beseeching look. Feel free to intervene at any time. Dorian opened his mouth to assist, but too late.
‘He has explained himself,’ the haughty princess fired back. ‘Just look at him! He’s unkempt, he was in a public house in the middle of the day and he was brawling. That’s just in the last fifteen minutes. Who knows what else he’s been doing?’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘the captain’s mistress’. But then he thought better of it. A becoming colour was riding her cheeks. The princess had been provoked enough already.
‘You would entrust our future to that? I don’t even want to know how it is that you know him, William.’ Too bad. He was counting on her making William explain the connection. Now, he’d just have to keep guessing. But that last comment set him on edge. Pretty princess or not, no one could talk about him as if he weren’t in the room, or worse, as if he were an object in the room.
‘I hate to interrupt this lovely example of sibling quarrels, but please note, I’m still here.’ Dorian stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. ‘I think it would be best if you tell me what you really want and then I’ll tell you if I’ll do it. I find business is usually much simpler that way.’
The carriage turned on to the docks and stopped before a barred gate. His haughty princess shot him a glare as she leaned out to give a password to the guard. ‘You might as well see what I have in mind.’
First pistols, now passwords. This was growing more interesting by the moment. What was a young woman doing down on the docks, throwing around entrance codes like she belonged here? For that matter, what was she doing roaming Cold Harbour Lane in search of him? She wasn’t his usual type, that type being a bolder, brassier woman, a less-well-dressed sort. Not that she wasn’t bold. She had come armed, after all. Hmm. A girl with a gun. Maybe she was his type. By the time she led him into the shipyard his curiosity, in all its healthy male parts, was fully engaged.
‘There it is,’ she announced with a proud wave of her hand, indicating the hull of a racer. ‘That’s the yacht I need finished.’
She needed a finished yacht? It just so happened he needed one, too. That meant the shipyard was her place. Very impressive. Dorian began a slow tour around the yard, attempting to assimilate the various pieces of information. He made note of the supplies lining the perimeter: the casks of pitch, the piles of timber, the buckets of nails. He peeked under heavy tarps. Everything was new and well organised. These were not supplies that had lain in the weather so long they were rotten or rusted.
He took in, too, the silence and the absence of men. Whatever had transpired had brought work to a halt, an interesting concept of its own given the scarcity of jobs. Plenty of men were out of work these days. It made one stop and wonder.
‘There’s no one here. Why is that?’ He stopped in front of Miss Elise Sutton, his tone far more serious than it had been in the carriage. This was no longer a laughing matter. ‘I think it’s time you tell me what you really need and why.’
That got her attention. She stepped back instinctively, but her eyes were as unflinching as they had been outside the tavern. Lord, she was magnificent. ‘My father passed away recently and left this boat. I want to finish it and sell it.’ It was a succinct tale, but Dorian took nothing at face value. In his world it was best not to if one wanted to live long enough to collect payment.
‘Let me guess—the work crew left because there was no one to run the company?’ Dorian surmised immediately. Things were becoming clearer: a brother too young to assume responsibility and a woman with too much on her hands. He was starting to remember the lad, too. Sutton. William Sutton. That elusive first name of his was more familiar when paired with the last. There’d been a house party near Oxford last autumn. Perhaps they’d met there during one of his own brief forays into the fringes of society?
‘Yes, but I assure you I am more than capable, I—’
Dorian held up a hand and shook his head. ‘Enough, Miss Sutton. I am sure you are very capable, but men won’t work for you. However, they’ll work for me for the simple fact that I am male, although they’ll be glad enough to take your money. I trust you’ve thought about how to pay them?’ He’d bet his last piece of gold she wanted to sell the yacht because she needed money.
‘From the proceeds of the sale,’ she said shortly, irritated by his insights.
‘I might know some men who’d be willing to work for a future profit.’ Dorian shrugged, but his mind was racing. He’d need five men who knew what they were doing and another dozen skilled in carpentry. The promise of delayed payment meant he might have to look harder and in less-savoury places for seventeen adequate workers.
‘Would you care to see the plans before you take this any further?’ Elise offered coldly. ‘This is not just any yacht. It’s been designed with several new innovations in mind. It will be important that you understand them.’
Dorian smiled. There wasn’t a ship he couldn’t build, couldn’t sail and couldn’t steal, for that matter. ‘I can build your yacht, Princess. You can innovate all you like. The bigger question is—why should I?’
Elise put her hands on her hips and a wry smile on her lips. ‘Because you need money. The bullies at the tavern intimated as much. Who is it you owe? A Mr Halsey?’
Dorian stifled a laugh. ‘Black Jack Halsey hasn’t been called “mister” his entire life, Princess. He’s been called a lot of other things, but not that.’
‘I’ll pay you one hundred pounds from the sale to finish the yacht on time.’
‘Five hundred,’ Dorian countered. A man had to live and pay his debts. If he could make a little extra that was fine, too. It wasn’t his fault part of his last cargo had been confiscated for non-payment of port fees. He’d told Halsey they’d not pass inspection and he’d been right.
‘Five hundred! That’s highway robbery,’ Elise retorted, outraged by his exorbitant fee.
‘Have much experience with highway robbery, do you?’ Dorian chuckled.
Elise chose to ignore his question and stood her ground. ‘I’m asking for one month’s worth of work, Mr Rowland. You can’t earn that much in three years of honest labour.’
‘Honest being the key word there, Miss Sutton.’ He’d make more than that on his next cargo, but he wouldn’t attest to those goods all being legal.
‘All right, two hundred.’ The sharp point of her chin went up a fraction.
‘Let me remind you, you came looking for me.’
‘Two-fifty.’
‘Three hundred and I get three meals a day and that shed over there.’ He jabbed his thumb at a wide lean-to on the perimeter of the yard.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want with the shed?’
‘That is none of your business.’
‘I won’t tolerate anything illegal on these premises.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Or illicit.’
‘Now, you’re parsing words, Miss Sutton. Do you want me to build your ship or not?’ No doubt they could disagree on the nature of ‘illicit’ all day.
‘We still haven’t established why I should let you,’ she challenged.
‘Because I’ve built boats for the pashas and the Gibraltar smugglers that rival anything your Royal Thames Yacht Club can put on the water. Have you ever heard of the Queen Maeve?’ He was gratified by the flicker of recognition in her eyes. So the princess wasn’t just desperate for money. She knew something about boats, too. ‘Fastest racer on the Mediterranean and I built her.’
Built her and lost her, much to his regret. She’d been his dream, but in the end he’d had to let her go. There would be other boats, other dreams. That’s what he told himself anyway, although there hadn’t been that many opportunities since coming back to England. Not until now. This boat could be his ticket back to Gibraltar, back to the life he’d built there. But that life was based on having a fast ship.
Dorian ran his hand over the smooth, sanded side of the hull where it was finished. The yacht had good lines. The familiar magic started to hum in his veins; the itch to pick up tools and shape something into sleekness thrummed in his hands. Best not let the princess see that longing. It was better they assume she was the only desperate party here.
‘You built the Queen Maeve?’ she queried in sceptical disbelief.
‘And others, but she was my favourite.’ An understatement.
‘I told you, Elise, Rowland is the best,’ her brother said, entering the conversation for the first time, apparently happy enough to let his sister handle negotiations. Dorian wished he could remember the young man more clearly.
Miss Sutton studied him. She was weighing hope against desperation. Dorian could see it in her eyes. Could She afford to let him go? She had to know already she could not. Who else would take her deal? She knew the answer to that as well as he did. She’d had a look at reality. Still, caution carried some weight with her. ‘You’ve spent a lot of time in the Mediterranean, an area known more or less for its lawlessness on the seas.’
‘Less these days,’ Dorian muttered under his breath. If Britain hadn’t been so steadfast in taming the seas, he might still be there, but tamed seas were bad for business, his business at least. Tamed seas forced a man to be more creative in his ventures.
She huffed and raised an eyebrow in censure over the interruption. ‘I must ask, are you a pirate, Mr Rowland?’
‘If I can build your yacht, does it matter?’ He winked. ‘That’s a rhetorical question, Miss Sutton—we both know I’m your last best chance. I’ll start tomorrow.’ He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He strode across the yard to the shed, calling over his shoulder as he opened the door to the lean-to, ‘If you need me, I’ll be in my office.’
Chapter Three
He was the last thing she needed! And if he needed her, which would be the more likely case, she’d be in her office, a fact Elise demonstrated by loudly stomping up the stairs and slamming the office door, an effect which was ruined by her brother immediately opening the door and quietly shutting behind him when he entered.
‘Did you see how he just came in here and tried to take over?’ Elise steamed, pacing the square dimensions of the office with rapid steps. ‘He’s the builder, not the owner. Five hundred pounds, my foot. This is my yard and he’d better remember that.’
‘He’ll build the yacht, Elise, you’d better remember that.’
The firmness of her brother’s tone stopped her steps. William had never spoken to her harshly. ‘What do you mean?’ Elise faced him slowly. He lounged against the wall, casual and elegant, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t the adolescent boy she was used to after all these years. The mantle of manhood was starting to settle about him in the sternness of his features. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
‘I mean, I will be away at university. Mother is gone. There’s no one to help you if you lose Rowland. Pay him what he wants, get the boat finished and let’s be done with this.’
Elise struggled to keep her mouth from falling open. ‘Let’s be done with this? What does that mean?’ She suspected she knew, but that was not at all what she wanted to hear.
‘It means let’s clear the debt and start a new life.’
Oh, that was better. She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘A new line, yes, of course. I have a lot of ideas about yacht lines and how we can branch out into sailboats. I think racing will fully shift from rivers to open sea in the next few years. We might even think of relocating to Cowes to be closer to the Solent.’ She was babbling excitedly now, reaching for a tube containing rolls of her drawings, but a shake of William’s head stopped her.
‘No, Elise, I don’t mean to redefine the company. I mean we should close the book on the company once the debts are paid. There will be a little left over for you until you marry and you can always stay with me. I hope to find a living somewhere or take an associate’s post at Oxford.’
It took a moment for William’s words to sink in. ‘Close the company?’ She sat down behind the desk, stunned. Had her brother been thinking this all along?
‘Well, what did you think we’d do after the yacht was finished?’ William pressed.
‘I thought we’d build more boats. You’ll see, William. After people view this yacht, there will be other orders. This yacht will relaunch us. It will show everyone we can turn out the same superior product we’ve always turned out. The investors will come back.’ It made so much sense to her. Surely William could see the logic in that?
‘How many master builders do you think I know?’ William gave a soft laugh.
‘I’m not sure how you knew this one.’ Elise put in tartly. ‘Care to explain?’
William dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. ‘It was just a house party put on by the parents of a friend of mine. A few of us went to help balance out numbers and Rowland was there. One night, we started talking and discovered we both had a common interest in yachting.’
Elise wrinkled her brow. ‘He hardly strikes me as the Oxford house-party type.’ Whatever Dorian Rowland was, she didn’t imagine he was the scholarly sort. Tan, blond and hard-bodied, he definitely didn’t spend his days poring over books in libraries.
William was growing impatient with her prying. ‘Look, I don’t know what he was doing there. He said he’d made a delivery, brought something up from London. How I know him is not the point. The point is, I was lucky enough to know this one. He’ll finish your boat, but he won’t stay. You’ll be right back where you started.’
‘I’ll pay him more,’ Elise blurted out, looking for an easy solution. But inside her heart she knew her brother was right: Dorian Rowland wouldn’t stay. He’d made it clear he was a man who did what pleased him, when it pleased him. Her proposition suited him for the moment. That was the only reason he’d taken her offer.
‘Money won’t always be enough for a man like him,’ William said with a maturity that surprised her. ‘I’ve bought you time, Elise, to wrap up business and clear the bills, nothing more. Besides, you need to get on with your life, get out to parties and meet people.’ By meet people, he meant meet men who would be potential husbands. Elise frowned in disapproval. She’d seen those men and been disappointed with them and by them.
When she didn’t respond he paused awkwardly, his tone softening. ‘Not every man is Robert Graves,’ William said quietly.
Elise wasn’t quite ready to relent. ‘Well, thank goodness for that.’ Robert Graves, the biggest, worst mistake she’d ever made. She’d thought William might have been young enough to not remember him, or at least to not understand the depths of her mistake.
‘Charles Bradford has expressed an interest in you,’ William cajoled. Charles was the son of one of her father’s former investors. ‘He’s a very proper fellow.’
‘Sometimes too proper,’ Elise said briskly. She began looking needlessly through some papers on the desk, wanting to bring this conversation to a close. She wasn’t interested in a suitor. She was interested in building a yacht and getting the company back on its feet.
William coughed awkwardly, taking her rather broad hint, once more the younger brother she knew. He made a stammering exit. ‘Errm…um…I have some errands to run. I’ll see you at home, don’t stay too late.’
Elise sank down in the chair behind the desk and blew out a breath. Welcome to the world of men, you can begin by following our orders and forgetting to think for yourself, Elise thought uncharitably. In the last months she’d become heartily tired of men.
She was starting to understand all the ways in which her father had shielded her and she’d been unaware. Oh, how she missed him! She thought the missing would get easier with time, not harder. But everywhere she looked, everywhere she went, she was reminded of his absence. Even here, the one place where she’d felt truly at home.
When she’d been with her father at the shipyards no one had questioned her opinions on yacht design; no one had contradicted her numbers in the ledger. People did what she told them to do. Right up until his death, she’d believed they’d done those things because she’d earned their respect with her hard work and intelligence. Then they’d deserted one by one: the workmen, the investors. The message could not be any more concise. We listened to you because we wanted to please your father so he’d build us fast boats and pay our salaries. Listening to you was just part of the game. Elise put her head in her hands. It was a cruel blow.
Today had been more of the same, just to make the point in case she’d missed it the first time around. Dorian Rowland had walked in and assumed an attitude of control as if he had a right to this place in his rough shirt and trousers. Her brother had stealthily issued an edict—she was to give up yacht design after this boat and resign her life to one of three unappealing options: marriage, keeping house for her brother or living with her mother. She was to be passed from man to man, father to brother, brother to husband. She’d had fun playing at design, but now it was time to put away her childish things.
She wouldn’t do it. Elise squeezed her eyes tight, pressing back tears. Closing the company would be like forgetting her father, as if his life hadn’t mattered. This place was his legacy and she would not discard it so easily. There were more selfish reasons, too. She needed this. She never felt as alive as when she was designing a model and watching it come to life from her ideas. What would she be without that? The answer frightened her too much to thoroughly contemplate it for long. Well, there was nothing for it; if she wasn’t going to contemplate it, she’d simply have to conquer it.
Alone at last! Dorian flashed a lantern up in the direction of the dark office window as he shut the heavy gate to the yard behind him and breathed a relieved sigh. Elise Sutton had finally gone home for the evening and he’d returned successfully from his little foray on to the docks. After the day he’d had, he couldn’t ask for much more.
Dorian set down the heavy bag he carried and rubbed his shoulder. When it had become apparent Miss Sutton planned on staying either because she didn’t want to go home in a snit or because she didn’t want to leave him alone in her shipyard, he’d decided to go out and take care of his business in the hopes it would convince her he’d gone home or wherever it was she imagined he went when the sun went down. Whether the princess knew it or not, this was his home now—that nice little shed in the corner of the lot.
He’d gone back to his now-former room, paid the landlady his paltry rent with the few remaining coins he had and gathered up his clothes and tools and made arrangements for his trunk to be delivered in the morning. It was far too heavy and too conspicuous to haul through the streets. No matter, it didn’t contain anything he considered absolutely essential. Those items were already packed away in a black-cloth sack. Still, between a single trunk and one black satchel, it was humbling to think they made up the sum of his worldly goods in England, but it had made packing easy.
It also made getting away easy. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed by Halsey’s thugs. On the way back, he’d stopped at a few taverns, looking for likely workers. In this case, ‘likely’ meant whoever would be willing to show up and work for future pay. He just had to get them here. Once they saw the yacht, the project would speak for itself.
Dorian raised the lantern higher to cast the light on the boat. It was showing itself to be an absolute beauty. Longer and leaner than most yachts, it would be fast in the water. He recognised the influence of the American Joshua Humphreys in the design.
He hung the lantern on a nearby peg and reached into his sack for a drawing knife with its two handles and slender blade. The tool felt good in his hands as he slid it against the hull, scraping roughness away from the surface of the wood. There wasn’t much to catch—the finished portion of the hull was smooth already—but it felt good to work. Dorian let the rhythm of the drawing motion absorb him. The only thing better was standing at the wheel of a boat feeling the water buck beneath him like a woman finding her pleasure—perhaps a particular black-haired woman with green eyes.
When he’d awakened this morning, he’d never dreamed he’d be building a ship by evening. The arrangement might be a good one. He could hide out from Halsey until he made back his money or until Halsey forgot he owed him. In the meanwhile, he could work a new angle. There was plenty of potential here in the shipyard. Dorian ran a hand over the surface he’d finished scraping. He could make plans for this boat. If the finished yacht was as promising as the shell, he might just find a way to talk Miss Sutton out of selling. It might mean cosying up to the ice princess, but he’d never been above a little sweet talk to get what he wanted. With a boat of his own, he’d be back in business and the possibilities would be limitless.
The possibilities should have been limitless, Maxwell Hart mused dispassionately as he listened to young Charles Bradford report his latest news concerning the Sutton shipyard. Elise Sutton had become a thorn in his side instead of bowing to the dictates of the inevitable. Her father was dead, her brother not prepared or interested in taking over the business, investors withdrawn and no obvious funds to continue on her own. All the pieces were in place for her to abdicate quietly, gracefully, to those with the means to run the shipyard. Instead, she had not relinquished the property, had not sought out a buyer for the plans to her father’s last coveted design. In short, she had done nothing as expected. Now there was this latest development.
‘There were lights at the shipyard tonight,’ young Charles Bradford told the small group of four assembled.
‘Do you think it could be vagrants?’ Harlan Fox suggested from his chair, looking around for validation. Fox had pockets that went deeper than his intelligence. Those pockets were his primary recommendation for inclusion in this little group of ambitious yachtsmen. ‘It’s been several months, after all. It’s about time for the vultures to settle, eh?’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘No, she’s been going to the office regularly. She probably worked late.’ He spat the pronouns with distaste. The best thing to do with thorns was to pluck them.
Charles Bradford interrupted uncharacteristically. ‘I beg your pardon, sir. It couldn’t have been Miss Sutton. She left around five o’clock and she was the last to leave. There were two other men, her brother and a man I didn’t recognise. But they’d both gone by then.’
Damien Tyne, the fourth gentleman present, said, ‘Any of them could have come back.’
‘It wasn’t likely to have been her or the brother,’ Charles pressed. ‘There was no carriage. Whoever returned came back on foot.’
‘I still vote for vagrants,’ Fox insisted.
But Damien Tyne leaned forwards, curiosity piqued. When Damien was intrigued, Maxwell had learned to pay attention. He and Tyne had made a tidy profit off those instincts and they were unerringly good. ‘What are you thinking, Tyne?’
Miss Sutton needed to be prodded in the right direction and in short order. He wanted that shipyard. It held a prime spot on the Thames and he’d coveted it for years. It would be the perfect place to move his own more obscure yacht-building operation and his warehouses. A good location would garner him the notice which to date had eluded him from his current locale in Wapping.
Obtaining the shipyard would just be the start. Hart also wanted to get his hands on the plans to Sutton’s last yacht just as badly for the future of his more private, less legitimate side of business with Tyne. Tyne could have the yacht. He wanted the plans. The key to any business venture was the ability to reproduce success.