Martin watched her go, then Hector bowed to him and followed her, cutting off the enticing view.
Martin turned and strolled toward the town center. The Kings Head stood on the corner of Church and Orchard Streets, far enough away to allow him to revisit the events of the morning.
He was immeasurably glad that he’d surrendered to the impulse to come to Sheffield, to Carmichael Steelworks, and plead his case in person. The curious fact that the major shareholder in the business was female had, admittedly, piqued his interest, but purely in the sense that, such being the case, he’d believed he would have an even-money chance of persuading her to sell to him. While he rarely bothered with social charm, charm in pursuit of business was another matter entirely. He’d entertained visions of dazzling Miss Carmichael into selling the business to him.
Then he’d met Sophia Carmichael and had jettisoned all thoughts of charming her into parting with her company. Over the years, he’d grown to be an excellent judge of business character, and she was too level-headed, too clear-sighted, and far too wedded to the steelworks to happily consign it into another’s hands, no matter how talented those hands might be.
If he wanted to acquire Carmichael Steelworks—and he most definitely did, even more so now than he had earlier that day—he was going to have to rework his approach.
Yet if he hadn’t traveled to Sheffield, hadn’t imposed his presence on her, and stuck with her in going around the shed… Lord only knew what the situation might have been then.
The one lesson the morning had taught him was that if he wanted to reap the full benefit of acquiring Carmichael Steelworks, he would need to ensure that Sophia Carmichael and her very real talents were a part of the deal.
He reached the hotel, went in through the door for private guests, and climbed the stairs to the uppermost suite. He was met by his man, Roland, and after surrendering his hat, cane, and overcoat, he sat down to consume the luncheon Roland had waiting.
Martin ate in silence, and familiar with his moods, Roland left him undisturbed.
Once Martin had finished the steak-and-kidney pie and washed the whole down with a pint of local ale, he called Roland and sent him to fetch Figgs, Martin’s groom, and Tunstall, Martin’s secretary.
After the three men joined him and, at his invitation, filled mugs of ale for themselves, Martin described the happenings of the morning. The three—all experienced in his ways—listened without interruption.
At the conclusion of his recitation, he eyed the trio. “I want you to go out and see what you can learn about any others—anyone at all—who has evinced an interest in Carmichael Steelworks. Quietly.” He stressed the qualification. “Don’t stir up any dust, and don’t let on that we have any interest in the place, either. That’s one tidbit I definitely want kept under our collective hat.”
All three grinned. They lived for such assignments.
“Aye, sir.” Figgs saluted. “They’re a hardworking lot hereabouts. Hard drinking, too, it seems, which should make our task much easier.”
Martin dipped his head and waved them off. “I won’t need you for the rest of the day or the evening. See what you can learn.”
* * *
The following morning, alongside her widowed aunt, Mrs. Julia Canterbury, Sophy sat through the service at St. George’s Parish Church and tried to keep her mind on the vicar’s words. Sadly, she had little success.
The prospect of some unknown enemy trying to ruin Carmichael Steelworks had kept her up half the night.
Dwelling on her unexpected reaction to Martin Cynster had kept her awake for the rest.
Bad enough that he’d shredded her comfortable belief that she lacked all susceptibility to handsome men. Courtesy of rescuing her, he’d cemented an entree into her business and, judging by his statement when they’d parted, he wasn’t of a mind to step back.
What she should—or could—do about that, she didn’t know.
After her disastrous first and only London season, when she’d made her come-out under her grandmother’s wing, she’d jettisoned all thoughts of finding a husband and had devoted herself, entirely contentedly, to working alongside her father in managing the steelworks. Since childhood, she’d spent as much time as possible there, and when her father passed from an infection of the lungs a little over fifteen months ago, her continuing to manage the business was viewed by everyone as a natural progression. To her, the steelworks was another sort of home.
All of that fed into how much, to her, the threat to the works mattered.
In the small hours of the night, she’d accepted that she could no longer equivocate over the accidents at the works being anything other than deliberate sabotage. Even more pertinently, they weredangeroussabotage, targeting her, all who worked there, and the business itself. She had to do something to defend against them and, ultimately, ensure they stopped.
That much, she saw clearly.
What to do about Martin Cynster and his offer for the steelworks was a great deal murkier. The truth was she wanted to hear more about his vision for the steelworks’ future. Not because she was in any way interested in selling the works but in order to gain a better perspective of what was possible. Of what the future potential of the business might be. Judging by the comments in his letters, he was well grounded in the various businesses that took the finished material produced by a steelworks and converted it into more profitable goods.
She’d heard sources she trusted declare that steel was the future, which intrigued her to no end. She wanted to know exactly in what way, so she could work out what alloys might be most profitable in the years to come.
Such knowledge would be key to steering Carmichael Steelworks into a prosperous future.
Her thoughts far away, she rose with the rest of the congregation for the benediction.
“Come along.” Julia glanced fondly at her. “You’ve been woolgathering all service. You didn’t even hear the sermon, did you?”
