“You understand this place. The other fellow don’t know his beans like you do. He don’t care. Will likely knock the shop down or turn it into a pub.” He held his arms out wide as his gaze caressed the shop from one end to the other. “Then where will all the fellows go to have their conversation? You have two months. I told the fellow I had another offer and that I’d have a decision by then.”
“Two months,” Devon breathed. He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. “That’s all.”
“You’ve got the money, my lord.”
“I don’t. My family does.”
Freddy snorted. “They’ll give it to you.”
Devon didn’t want gifts. He wanted to earn it. He clinked his cup on the bar and straightened. The bitter drink sat heavy in his stomach. “I need to think.”
“Don’t have much longer to think. We won’t ask for the thirty-five years’ purchase fromyou.”
If they could get it elsewhere, Devon wanted them to have it. That meant, he needed the seven thousand himself. He waved a hand in the air as he marched toward the exit. “I’ll be back, Freddy.”
“Always are.”
Devon lifted his face to the gray sky as he stepped onto the busy street. A single month. He could not raise the funds carefully in that much time and would have to start taking more risks than he liked. He had precious little money of his own saved up to begin with. With heavy feet, he trudged down the street toward Mayfair. Where would he go once he got there? His brother’s townhouse? Or to the Clarke’s?
One way held the easy answer, all the money to get him what he wanted immediately. No waiting or working required.
The other way held frustration, sleepless nights, and torn pages from notebooks. But if he could perfect the machine, and thus perfect the coffee, he could patent it, sell it, and make money from the fruits of his own labor, from the wrinkles of his own brain.
But if that brain was not good enough?
Back to the gambling tables, a slow process. He must be cautious, after all.
And invention sped about on eagles’ wings? Ha!
His feet answered his geographical question for him, and he found himself before the Clarke’s door. He stood, looking at it, too soul-weary to open the door or even knock on it.
“Lord Devon?”
Devon groaned. Miss Clarke stood behind him. He only now heard the clatter of coach wheels across the street behind him. What scathing things would she have to say to him today? He did not think he could take it. He turned around, without even trying to hide his mood.
“Miss Clarke,” he said with a bow. “Good afternoon. Returning from sometonnishevent or other, I presume.” He searched the ground about her feet. “Where are your conquests? I see no mangled bodies.”
She was dressed prettily in a white muslin gown with pink flowers embroidered throughout. Her bonnet was festooned with a similarly colored floral arrangement. Her curls peeked out. She should look fresh and lovely. She looked tired.
“I am not in the mood for your jokes, Lord Devon,” she said. “You’re here to invent something or other, I gather.”
“I am.” He turned back to the door.
She joined him, gave him a glare, then looked at the door herself.
They sighed.
He turned his head to look at her and found her looking at him. A smile grew on his lips, and one grew on hers.
They laughed, a sound that curled around them, lightening the air between them, shimmering, like stained glass with light pouring through.
Devon opened the door and ushered her inside. “It seems we share a mood, Miss Clarke.”
“It is a gray, heavy day, and I feel the same inside.” She froze, then she attacked her bonnet ribbons. “You do not care. My apologies for boring you.” She scowled as her fingers tangled in the ribbons.
He swatted her hands aside. “Let me. You’re making a muck of it.” His knuckles brushed her skin—soft and warm—and he focused harder on the ribbons.
She focused on the ceiling.
