“By the grace of God!” he declared.
“Nonsense. We are a good team—you must admit that.”
“I thought you were considering setting up Mr. Thornbridge in the inquiry agent business?”
“I was, but I am now convinced he shouldn’t like that. He wants to leave the city. He is attending lectures and reading all manner of books on land and estate management. His plan now is to be an estate steward.”
“That requires more than lectures and book learning,” James said.
“I know, but he is determined to make a career change once Waddley’s is sold. We will see what we might do to assist him.”
“We?”
“Naturally,” she said, giving him a sly glance and smile. “As if I would do anything without my wonderful husband.”
“Why do I feel, my lady wife, that you are attempting to manipulate me?”
“Me? Such nonsense you speak, James,” Cecilia teased.
He laughed, then sobered and patted her hand where it lay across his arm. “Actually, I knew of Thornbridge’s plan and had put out the word on his behalf. I may have come across the perfect solution for him that will require his business acumen as well as estate stewardship.”
“What is that?”
“One of my cousin’s entailed properties enjoys high-quality clay deposits of the kind used for porcelain figurines and tableware. He has it leased to one of the big pottery companies, but he has concerns they are taking more than agreed, and his estate steward only concerns himself with the tenant farms and the home farm, knowing nothing about the business of clay mining. When Gideon looked closer at the books for that property, he saw the potential for a nice profit that will help him pull the earldom out of the River Tick. He needs an estate agent who can negotiate with the pottery company and keep them honest.”
Cecilia thought. “That might serve,” she said slowly. “Sounds like something he could really get involved in, with lots of learning potential.”
“Such was my thought. I owe him a debt of gratitude for his efforts on your behalf.”
“James, gratitude doesn’t cover it. The man took a knife in his side while seeking information for me!”
“I know, I know.”
“The sale doesn’t close for another couple of weeks. Now that the terms are agreed upon, the solicitors and the banks have paperwork to draw up. We will need to go to London for the signing.”
“As restless as you are, are you certain you don’t wish to go sooner? Or perhaps to your grandfather’s until then? They are expecting us for Christmas, along with your Aunt Jessamine and her family.”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, as much as I love Grandfather, a little of the Duke of Houghton goes a long way. I shall put off that pleasure for a while longer. I know I should relax and enjoy the quiet while I can. In my soul, I am gripped by the feeling it won’t last.”
1
LATE NOVEMBER 1815, EAST INDIA DOCKS, LONDON
“Rani! Rani!” The child’s plaintive cry pierced the pandemonium of the London wharf.
Rani Rangaswamy spun away from the man she’d approached for directions. She’d left Krishan not twenty feet away, sitting amongst their motley assortment of trunks, boxes, and portmanteaus.He was gone.
“Krishan!” she called out, listening in every direction for his voice, searching among the teeming throngs of people and goods for a sight of her charge.
To her right, tall-masted ships from India and the Far East lined the wharf, and to her left, a line of brick warehouses three stories tall nearly blocked out the sun. She looked frantically about the deeply shadowed wharf. She was a tiny woman by English standards, and to Rani Rangaswamy, all the English people milling about the wharf appeared as giants, obscuring her view.
There! A little hand waving!
“Krishan!” she screamed, running toward the hand.
A plump woman in a mob cap carried Krishan away. She moved fast for a large woman. Rani darted after them, weaving in and out of the crowds of ship crews, passengers, merchants, and laborers, trying desperately to keep Krishan in sight.
A man in rough sailor clothes jostled her on her left side, almost knocking her over, then came another jostle by a well-dressed gentleman from her right, and Rani stumbled and fell on the wharf. Her hands stung, scraped and bloodied against rough wood. Her knees ached, her green saree suffered black stains where she fell, from the tar and dirt left behind by hundreds of shoes and boots and carts that crossed and crisscrossed the dock. She scrambled to her feet but couldn’t see the woman or her charge, her dear Krishan.
