Devil take it, why didn’t I do better? How could I let down my partners and investors, who were counting on me? What the bloody hell is wrong with me?
His frustration and anger at himself felt brutally familiar.
“Perhaps there is salvaging the situation yet. If we were to issue a counter-statement with a plan and timeline, we might be able to staunch the bleeding.” Kent’s bespectacled gaze was not unsympathetic. “Any word from the surveyors?”
“Norton’s verdict should be arriving today or tomorrow.” Wick’s gut tautened as he let himself consider the worst-case scenario.
What if Norton can’t come up with an alternative plan? What then?
In his head, he hadn’t allowed for the possibility—or rather, he’d believed that, whatever Norton’s findings, he could find a way to make things work. That, with time, he would sort out a solution, the way he always did, even with the most difficult of negotiations. In his arrogance, he’d believed that he could manage anything.
Failure had never been an option. Until now…when it was staring him in the face.
“Norton’s verdict is no guarantee of a solution,” Garrity said flatly. “The only immediate action that will prevent certain disaster is gaining Lady Beatrice’s support of our plan. For God’s sake, Murray, it’s clear you’re going to marry the woman. What’s hers will be yours anyway, so she might as well get used to the idea now.”
“That strategy worked well for you, didn’t it?” Wick retorted.
He knew his point hit home when Garrity said nothing, his eyes narrowing into dark slits.
Two years ago, Garrity had undergone a crisis in his marriage when he’d tried to force his wife’s hand in a matter regarding her inheritance. He’d nearly lost Gabriella as a result, and in the end he’d discovered that nothing mattered more than his wife’s love. Since Wick had witnessed first-hand his mentor’s painful soul-searching and ultimate redemption, he knew Garrity had learned his lesson.
“Fine. We’ll buy Lady Beatrice and her goddamned tenants a new refuge.” Garrity’s jaw muscle ticked. “In Staffordshire—on the bloody moon, for all I care. Make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
“I started with that tactic. It’s not about the money. Camden Manor isn’t just a piece of land to Beatrice.” Hell, he didn’t know how to make his partners understand. “It’s not…replaceable. Trust me, I’ve tried—”
“Try. Bloody.Harder,” Garrity said.
“In the interim, we should assemble the investors,” Kent cut in. “I could give a demonstration of the new engine. Perhaps the technological advances we’ve developed will reignite some confidence. It will buy us more time to get the rest of our plan in order.”
“Good thinking,” Garrity said curtly. “I’ll personally contact our largest stakeholders and assure them that while plans have been delayed, they will proceed. I’ll tell the clerks to toe the company line. All right, gentlemen, we have our tasks: let’s each do our part.”
Wick left the office, his chest tight. He knew what his part was: to get the railway built. Which meant he either had to renege on his vow to Beatrice and ask her once again to sell her land—or fail the company and people who’d trusted him.
Either way, failure and dishonor were closing in.
35
When Wick arrived home,the conversation he dreaded having with Beatrice was delayed by the appearance of Mr. Lugo. The three of them met in the drawing room, Beatrice perched on the settee, Wick standing behind her, the investigator facing them both. A strapping fellow, Mr. Lugo had mahogany skin and penetrating eyes, his deep voice bearing the accent of his native Africa. He declined the offer of tea and got straight to the point.
“I have started making inquiries into Thomas Edgar Grigg,” he said. “While the case is in its early stages, I believe I have some information that may be of interest.”
“Since we spoke to you only two days ago, I’m amazed you have any information to share,” Bea said with clear admiration. “Your reputation is obviously well earned, sir.”
Mr. Lugo inclined his close-cropped head in acknowledgement. “To begin, Grigg was an only child born in Manchester. Both his parents died when he was in his adolescence, and he worked as a coal miner as a young man. He managed to catch the eye of a coal merchant’s daughter visiting from London, a woman by the name of Madeline Johnson. He married her and got into the family business.
“After his father-in-law died, he took over and expanded operations, amassing significant wealth. He and his wife had one child, a son named Thomas Franklin Grigg, born in 1816.”
Wick made the mental calculation. “That would make Grigg’s son four-and-twenty today. Do you know what happened to him after his father’s death?”
“The specifics of that will take longer to trace, but I was able to ascertain a few facts. After Grigg’s business was ruined and he took his own life, his wife and child were left destitute. They lived with her relatives, moving from home to home. Eventually, when the boy was old enough, he pursued a career in the Church.”
Bea’s gaze collided with Wick’s: the shock in her eyes told him that she’d come to the same conclusion that he had. Male, early twenties, position in the Church—that described one person in her immediate circle.
“You don’t think Grigg’s son is…Frank Varnum?” she said to Wick.
“Varnum, you say?” Lugo cocked his head, his brown eyes alert.
“Yes, he’s the curate of the village church.” She hesitated. “He’s very nice.”
