“Perfect,” she sighed then chuckled. “Not Lord Atlas’s sudden marriage. That’s not perfect. Or maybe it is. I hardly know.” She hopped off the chair arm and took up Atlas’s letter.
What had his brother done? Well, he knew thewhat, butwhy? He’d wanted a cabinet maker, not a wife, and he’d been so opposed to hiring Mrs. Bronwen, opposed to bringing her child to Briarcliff.
“We should visit Briarcliff,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Visit… Briarcliff? But you never wish to. Only if you must.” She rolled her hand. “Weddings. Funerals. I would add births, but I don’t wish to presume.”
He shrugged. “My brother is married. I visited the other three for such a reason.” He reached for the other epistles, flipped through them, mumbled, “I’d visit for births, too. Hm. A few of our most recent clients have sent letters as well.”
“Lord and Lady Shefford?”
He nodded. “And Baron Braxton. Then one from… I don’t know this seal. Here. You open the ones from Shefford and Braxton.” He passed them off to her, and she sat on the edge of his desk, facing him, her fingers making quick work of the wax seal as he did the same on the unidentified epistle.
Once open, he scanned the very bottom and crumpled the paper. An automatic response born of rage.
“Oh…”
Had she noticed his anger? No, she stared only at the letter she’d opened.
“What is it?” he demanded, his own letter from Tidsdale damn near burned holes in his hand.
“Baron Braxton no longer needs our services. He’s acquired a tutor for his sons from… another agency.”
“Tidsdale.”
She ripped open the other letter he’d handed her. “Oh, no, Drew. Lord and Lady Shefford, too. They’ve found their governess from?—”
“Tidsdale. That boil on a backside.” He smoothed the paper he’d crumpled on the desk, and Amelia read over his shoulder.
“No!” She snatched the letter away before he’d finished it, frowning at it at first before her face drained of all expression and color. “No.” A quieter word this time, subdued by what he already knew.
“He’s won the houses in Aster Square.” He opened the remaining epistle from Mr. Beggsly. “This confirms it.”
His grand scheme, the next stage of his dream, his purpose, stolen by a man with deeper pockets and no shame.
She wrinkled her nose. “Insulting man. He asks about me.” He stood and rounded the desk, avoiding touching her, made for the door. “Drew, where are you going? We must discuss this. You applied for a loan, remember? And?—”
“No, I did not. I’m going to London. To speak to Beggsly myself.”
“There are other houses, other addresses.” She shook her head, pressed her fingers to her temples. “What do you mean you did not apply for a loan?”
“It is not difficult to understand.”
“But you said?—”
“I lied. No loans. Ever. They partly ruined my father. Lenders would stand outside art museums, waiting for him, knowing he’d do anything, make any bargain if he had perfect brushstrokes in his eyes. I’ll not make the same mistake. I rise or fall with myownearned capital.”
Her arms fell slowly, as if through water, to her sides. She spoke just as slowly. “Putting aside the fact youliedto me, going to London will achieve nothing. You cannot control other men with deeper pockets.”
“I can only control me.” And he would not take out a loan. And he would never earn his inheritance. And he would not pay his employees less. The end, then, of everything he’d worked so hard for?
Her hand wrapped round his waist, then she ducked under his arm and stood before him. “Drew, wait. Remain calm. We’ll figure it out.”
“Calm? While he takes what I want? Whilehetakes the housesyoulove?” His hands turned into fists. “I’ll never let him.”
The time had come. He’d been working toward just this moment these last weeks. He should have already done it, but he’d held back, scared to damage the fragile thing they were building together. But now the business he’d spent his entire life building was in danger. He had no choice. It was time.
He cupped her face, stroked his thumbs over her cheeks. “Marry me.”
