She had not won that argument. Nor had she lost it.
Russell’s weighted gaze bored into her. Undoubtedly he’d side with her uncle.
The lanky man had begun working for her father eleven years prior. At thirty-two he was a full decade her senior. His mild manners and straightforward disposition made him easy to interact with, but in moments like this, when professional and family matters intertwined, their unique relationship could be difficult to navigate.
“Go on,” she said at last, reaching for the linen work apron she had slung over the chair when Mrs.Milton arrived. “I know you’re champing at the bit to share your opinion.”
He let out his typical good-natured chuckle, abandoned his chair, and stepped around the desk. He wore no coat, a bottle-green corduroy waistcoat hugged his lean torso, and his blousy linen shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed one booted foot over the other. “He’s right, you know.”
She turned to face him. His curly, straw-blond hair seemed to always be in need of a trim. “I thought you’d say that.”
“I’m serious. I’ve heard the stories about George Wainbridge. A wealthy heir with too much time and money on his hands. Do I think you’ll be safe with Mrs.Milton as your chaperone? Yes. Do I think it a good idea to get involved with fops like George Wainbridge? Probably not.”
Olivia shrugged the apron over her shoulders, annoyed that his assessment of the situation did not match her own. “It’s a good thing I’m going for Mrs.Milton, then, and not Mr.Wainbridge.”
“Oh, come now, Olivia, don’t get testy. I’m only looking out for you, ’tis all. I’d hate to see you get yourself into a difficult situation.”
She hastily secured the apron strings behind her back and avoided looking in Russell’s direction. An odd dynamic had existed between them ever since her father died. It had been born out of the need for them to work together to keep the business strong, but beyond that, she did consider him a friend, and as such, he knew far more about her personal life than he should.
“But”—he lowered his voice as if taking her into his confidence—“to ease your mind a bit, I know of that collection.”
She jerked her head up. “You do? Mrs.Milton’s collection?”
He nodded. “Do you recall when your father and I escorted the Cavesee Vase to Cloverton Hall after its arrival? We spent two nights there before returning to London. I didn’t actually see her collection, mind you, but old man Milton told us that his wife had an astute penchant for oddities and antiquities, even superior to his own. He said it consisted of a great deal of items in their natural form—shells and gems and the sort.”
“Well, that’s encouraging, I suppose.” She sank into the chair next to his desk, rested her elbows on the desk’s edge, and cradled her chin in her hand. “Regardless, I’ve committed myself. I couldn’t go back on my word now. I only hope the collection’s value is enough to justify the journey. I hate to give my uncle the satisfaction of being right.”
“You meanyoudon’t want to bewrong, more like.” Russell smirked before fixing his bright blue eyes on her. “I know you’re frustrated with the state of things, but I do wonder if traipsing all the way to Yorkshire is the best way to go about proving your point.”
“If I don’t pursue it, another opportunity will not come. You know that.”
He shook his head and straightened to his full height. “I’m not entirely sure what it is you’re chasing, but I wish you could accept things for how they are. I really do.”
Olivia longed for contentment too. But how could peace be found here? Now that her parents were dead, she was subject to her uncle’s whims. What was more, her uncle was turning her father’s dream into something unrecognizable. She hated it. She wanted freedom to continue her father’s work and passion on her own terms, but her options and resources were sorely limited. Any opportunity, no matter how small or unlikely, needed to be explored.
“I’ll support whatever you want to do.” Russell rounded the desk and sat down at his ledger. “If you want to go to Yorkshire, then go to Yorkshire. But be careful. People who go to those parties are different than the people we associate with.”
Russell’s warning echoed as she stood to collect the paperwork she’d been reviewing upon Mrs.Milton’s arrival. Olivia did believe that Russell had her best interests at heart, and yet he could never truly understand her reasonings. Time would tell if she was on a fool’s errand, but this was something she had to do—if only to prove it to herself.
Chapter3
Brooks’s gentlemen’s club. No matter how many times Lucas Avery stepped through these doors, he was in awe.
Candles were suspended from the ceiling and hung in wall sconces to illuminated the space, and once inside his eyes quickly adjusted to the smoky haze and flickering light. The low, energetic hum of male voices, broken by the occasional bout of spirited laughter, met his ears. Men from the highest echelons of society were gathered here for an evening’s entertainment and camaraderie, but he was not here for such pursuits. Indeed, his goal for the night was infinitely more significant. In fact, this might be his last opportunity to salvage what was left of Avery & Sons.
Lucas accepted a small glass of port from a footman’s tray and began his search for William Tate, his friend and his business’s only remaining investor. He found the sandy-haired dandy quickly, seated at a gaming table engaged in a rousing round of faro. Card after card signaled Tate’s impending fate, and once the game ended in his defeat, Tate muttered undecipherably, slapped his cards down, and shoved his chair away from the table.
It was then he took notice of Lucas. “Not my night, I’m afraid.” He stood, pulled his gilded box of snuff from his pocket, popped it open, and extended it toward Lucas. “Took you long enough to get here.”
Lucas raised a hand in refusal. “Sorry. Didn’t get your message until quite late. What did I miss?”
Tate snorted. “Only my complete degradation at the card tables, and the billiards table before that. If I’d not been so bored waiting for you to arrive, I might have avoided that nasty business altogether. In all reality, my loss is on your shoulders.” Tate pinched the black powder between his thumb and forefinger, quickly inhaled it, and returned the shiny box to his pocket.
“That’s an interesting assessment,” bantered Lucas. “I suppose you could have been doing something productive and followed up with Mr.Chalton over there to gauge his interest in selling me that German silver wine cistern he’s been hinting he might want to part with. Don’t you?”
Tate grimaced, then scoffed dismissively. “You know me better than that, old friend. Come on. Wainbridge is still here, but we must hurry. This might be your only chance to meet with him. He’s quitting London on the morrow.”
Lucas scanned the crowded chamber. Over the last few months he’d heard the name George Wainbridge more times than he could count, but he’d yet to meet the fellow. Fortunately for Lucas, Tate and Wainbridge had a longstanding friendship from their time at Cambridge.
