It wouldn’t. He’d only ever wanted one thing with his agency—to give back to those who’d lost so much, to help them regain something of their lives before a father or brother had drank or gambled it all away. Not just fine furniture and a good address. Respect. That’s what he’d wanted for them. And he’d failed. In the end, fate won, his will not strong enough for victory.
It was this drab, brown house or nothing. No expansion.
He left the room and trudged down the stairs on numb legs. He started down the street, pulling his coat tighter and the brim of his beaver hat lower against the drizzle settling like mist around him, sinking into the dark wool of his greatcoat.
“Lord Andrew!” He stopped, and she whizzed around him like a bullet, skidding to a halt in front of him. Not Mrs. Dart. Amelia, her eyes wide with concern. “Whatever is wrong with you?” she demanded.
He looked forward at a spot over her head, at nothing really, his future colder, bleaker than the empty space flurried by falling snow.
She shook his arm. “You must close the deal with Mr. Beggsly.” Still, he stared into the space above her, growing blanker by the moment. She sighed. “One house is as good as another. We shall fix it up a bit.” She shook him again. “Look atme.” Another sigh. “We could take out a loan. I know you hate it when I suggest it, but?—”
“My father took out loan after loan after bloody loan. Raph paid them back. I paid them back. Atlas and Theo and Zander paid them back. The houses we’ve viewed auctioned off and sold and rented out for the very reasons our employees need to go into service. The irresponsibility of someone who should have cared for their legacies. No loans.”
Her hands on his arms softened, and her thumbs pressed into the hollow of his elbows, sweeping up and down, comforting. Trying to. “You will not be so irresponsible.”
“You’re right.” Finally he looked at her. “Because I will not take them out.” He pulled from her blessed embrace and marched ahead of her. He stopped a hack rumbling toward him. “Take this back to the art school. I need to walk.” She didn’t argue, didn’t tell him he could not control her. She merely stepped up and disappeared inside, and then the hack rumbled away with her.
Drew walked into the snow, feeling each weightless fleck like a heavy weight on his soul.
Amelia paced the length of the little study she shared with Drew at the art school and waited. And she tried desperately not to want. The bounder. After all they’d shared, he wanted her money. A small part of her screamed to accept his proposal. He was a passionate lover, and better to tie her to him than to watch him marry another woman. Why, after all, wasn’t he marrying another woman? He needed money. The logical step would be an heiress.
But he’d not even said the words. Gave her hope. Shouldn’t, silly little heart.
The door opened and the housekeeper bustled in. “Mrs. Dart. The man you are expecting is here.”
“Wonderful. Send him in.”
Moments later, Mr. Tidsdale swaggered into the room, stopped so close to her she had to take a step back to keep their bodies from touching. “You summoned me?” The words said around a confident grin.
“I want you to give up your pursuit of the Aster Square residence.” No use wasting time with pleasantries.
He whistled and dropped into a nearby seat, crossing one boot over the other knee. “I knew I liked you.”
“You like no one but yourself, I assume.”
“And why’s that?”
“You play games. Games are played for the benefit of the player.”
He nodded, his smile intact, a merry concession. “I won’t give up the house. For the same reasons your employer wants it. Perfect address. Perfect look. It will give me a fashionable flair.”
But Drew didn’t want it for himself. He didn’t care about fashion if it didn’t give the men and women who needed their help a distinct advantage, a comfort in the storm of their lives.
Maybe she should marry Andrew. An easy fix in every way but in the matter of her heart.
“I might agree to it, though, Mrs. Dart, if you strike a bargain with me.”
She was sick of bargains. They brought nothing but heartache. “And what is that?”
“You come work for me, run my agency as you’ve run Lord Andrew’s. Only then will I drop my interest in the house.”
Ah. That again. She could marry Drew and allow her heart to live in misery. Or she could follow this man out the door and…nothing much would change. She’d be employed to a man doing the same work. Perhaps she could mitigate some of the selfish harm this man might cause others.
And Drew would have his houses. No, Miss Angleton and the others would have their houses, their safe havens between positions, a place they could feel comfort and belonging and respect.
“And, Mrs. Dart,” Mr. Tidsdale said, rising and slinking toward her, “if any other sort of relationship might come about from working so closely with another, then…” He tweaked her chin, winked. “I can only assume Lord Andrew takes full advantage of employing a widow. In every way conceivable.”
A snarl tore through the air, a streak of bared teeth and fists rushed across the room, and Mr. Tidsdale hit the ground with an echoing thud. Atop him, Drew appeared possessed, his cheeks flushed with a vengeful red she’d never seen on him before, his eyes wolf wild and his jaw set with deadly determination.
