Fellow industrialists Arnold Trowbridge and John Smedley were Conrad’s fiercest competitors, and both had bones to pick with him. Last year, Conrad had outmaneuvered Trowbridge during a deal involving factories in Sheffield. The tidy profit he’d made selling off the works had resulted in the other man barging into his offices, uttering threats. As for Smedley, Conrad had gotten wind that the other had sent spies to infiltrate his business. Conrad had deliberately circulated false information, and when Smedley had acted upon it, he’d lost a fortune. A few weeks later, a blaze had erupted at Conrad’s offices in Manchester, and while he’d lacked concrete proof of Smedley’s involvement, his gut told him the fire had been no accident but an act of retaliation.
“I don’t know those men.” Isobel’s breath hitched. “You…you’re hurting me.”
He realized that he’d tightened his grip on her arm. With an oath, he released her. He did not hurt women, and Isobel was merely doing someone else’s dirty work. Luckily, she’d only gained access to a drawer of his desk. He secured his most important documents in a strongbox hidden in the wall.
“I have a message for whoever you are spying for,” he said.
Her gaze darted, a telltale sign. “I told you I’m not spying?—”
“I will find out who they are. And they will regret it when I do.”
She blanched.
He yanked on the bell. Within moments, his butler Yardley appeared. He’d hired Yardley for two reasons: the fellow’s discretion and the fact that he was built like a brick tower.
Yardley bowed, his thick, brown hair gleaming. “How may I be of assistance, sir?”
“Keep an eye on Mrs. Denton while she collects her things,” Conrad said. “Then escort her out.”
“This way, madam,” Yardley said.
Isobel kept her head held high as the butler marched her out.
When the door closed behind them, Conrad examined his desk. Nothing looked out of place on the organized blotter. The drawer that Isobel had managed to open contained a report he’d asked his chief manager, Lionel Redgrave, to compile on failing works that might be worth investing in. All of it was public information, and even if Isobel managed to recall the dozen-plus businesses and conveyed them to Trowbridge or Smedley, it would not be the end of the world. However, Conrad’s jaw tautened when he saw the file peeping beneath; it was labeled “Chudleigh Bottoms Spa” and contained his research.
Did Isobel see this file? Will she mention my interest in the spa to the bounder who hired her?
Exhaling, Conrad told himself it mattered naught. Even if his competitors learned of his interest in the spa, they would assume it was for business reasons. No one knew about his personal motivations. Not even his solicitor Marvell, who knew more about his past than anyone since he had needed the fellow’s legal expertise on the matter of his birthright. While he had thoroughly vetted Marvell and the others who worked for him, he furnished only the necessary information. As far as he was concerned, less was more when it came to knowledge about his private affairs.
His secrets were his own…until he chose to reveal them.
He went upstairs to get ready for the day. His valet was putting on his cuff links when Yardley informed him that Marvell had arrived.
Finally, some good news.
The solicitor’s early return from Chuddums must mean that he’d negotiated the purchase of the spa. With the business under his control, Conrad could shut it down and seal the fate of Chuddums.
“Tell him I’ll be down shortly. By the by.” Conrad cocked a brow. “Did Mrs. Denton go quietly?”
“I believe she had a few opinions.” Yardley cleared his throat. “About the status of your parentage. Or, ahem, the lack thereof.”
He smiled without humor. “I’ve been called worse. In case I did not make it clear, she is not to be allowed on the premises again.”
“Understood, sir.”
When Conrad strode into his study, Marvell shot up from his seat. Despite being in his fifties, the solicitor had no grey in his short, brown-black hair. He’d always reminded Conrad of a mole with his pale, twitchy nose and habit of squinting through his spectacles. Marvell’s looks belied the fact that he was a top-notch negotiator who had a habit of getting things done. However, he looked more nervous than usual, and Conrad’s mood soured.
“Don’t tell me that Caldecott woman refused to sell?” Conrad demanded.
Marvell scrunched his nose. “I did all that I could, Mr. Godwin. After she rejected the written offer, I personally delivered a higher bid to her. She turned that down, too. When I doubled that offer, she said, and I quote, ‘I will never sell this spa.’ Rather dramatic, I daresay, but those were her words.”
Bloody hell. If you want a thing done, do it yourself.
“Never say never,” he said.
The solicitor blinked. “But she ejected me from her property and told me not to return?—”
“You are not going to the spa, Marvell,” Conrad said grimly. “I am.”
