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Harry bit back a curse. “Lord only knows how long that will take.”

“The old boathouse where Da began—” said Gwen, “it’s a little inland, but there’s the slipway. We still have scaffolding, spare planks and beams, ropes and pulleys, and one of the larger cranes. It’s not ideal, but it’ll keep us moving while we work out arrangements with the harbormaster. Do you suppose it'll work?”

Beside her, arms crossed over his chest, Harry was nodding again. “Yes. That’ll do. More than. Good thinking, fy nghariad. Your pa would be proud of you. Real proud.”

Even if she could make herself believe that particular fiction, she knew she didn’t deserve to feel better about any of this. Harry must have seen as much in her expression.

“No, Wyn. He would. Oh, he’d give you a tongue-lashing for taking all this on yourself, to be sure, but he’d be beaming with pride as he did it.” Harry picked up one of the letters, then dropped it back down onto the desk. “This little lordling thought he’d maneuver Llanelli right out from under your nose, because you’re young or a woman or, God forbid, both. But you’re clever, Gwen. Devilishly clever, and if I were down to my last farthing, I’d bet on you every time. Enough brooding now. There’s work to be done.”

CHAPTER 2

LONDON, ENGLAND — SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

Michael

A knock sounded at the door but Michael didn’t look up from the contract he was studying; he didn’t need to. He’d realised, a long time ago, that he could give any task roughly twenty percent of his attention and still excel at whatever he was meant to be doing.

Yet, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime’s worth of days, he felt a little thrill of anticipation over what another person might say to him. It was nothing akin to the all-consuming ambition of his youth, but it was there… the slightest indication of sensation, like the tickle of a feather down his spine or the pins and needles of a limb coming awake again, had become something he could easily ignore.

“Come in, Smythe."

The door opened and closed, and then nothing. Michael did look up then, because Smythe never hesitated. He didn’t dither or fidget, or soften a conversation with inconsequential pleasantries as though Michael were a handful of tea leaves that needed to steep before he was worth engaging. That his partner was doing so now meant something. Perhaps Mrs Bevans had caved and sold, or her workers had been easily coerced away. He didn’t know what exactly, only that something had sent the plan careening onto a new course. He could feel it in his gut, that sickening weightlessness just before the violent lurch. Except this was precisely why Smythe had gone to Wales, so why did success feel so unexpectedly jarring?

And why was Smythe looking about the room as if he’d never been there before? The man’s gaze darted about the orderly, understated space, from the silver inkstand to the polished surface of Michael's desk, then to the walls, where he would find precious little to hold his attention. They bore only a charcoal drawing of Northam Hall, gifted to Michael by his eldest nephew, and a botanical painting his secretary had hung while he was away on business. The former had earned its place only because Michael was fonder of his nephew than he was of most people. The latter held no significance whatsoever, remaining there only because he couldn't be bothered to remove it. Michael wasn’t even certain what sort of plant it was.

“You got the contract then,” Michael said when he grew tired of waiting.

Months of stabbing one another with sharpened quills across the Bristol Channel, and it was done. Just like that. How utterly disappointing.

“Contract?” Smythe frowned. “What? No. I didn’t get it.” His attention snapped to Michael. “We’re not getting the contract. We’ll never get the blasted thing. It’s time to leave well enough alone.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, the polished leather giving a quiet creak beneath him. “Explain.”

“For a brilliant man, you can be decidedly dense, you know.”

“Then use small words.”

“We can’t win. Are those small enough for you?”

Michael blinked, his mind rolling over the words like he would an unfamiliar substance in his mouth. He could not recall hearing that sentiment articulated precisely that way before—ever, and certainly not from this man.

Smythe sidled forward another half step. “This matters to her, Michael. Far more than it matters to you, and make no mistake, she’ll fight like a bloody badger if you corner her. The time and capital we’d spend would far outstrip whatever paltry gains you imagine from the yard. And if we do, somehow, manage to succeed, there'll be nothing left worth having—dry docks choked with stone, slipways warped beyond use, furnaces gone cold. Llanelli will be empty. The foremen will disappear. The craftsmen will go hungry before they lend their hands to the man who destroyed her. Their loyalty to Mrs Bevans is… absolute. And for good reason.”

Smythe pressed his palms onto the table, his fingers splayed. “She is remarkable, Michael… formidable, tenacious, incredibly resourceful. Surely you’ve seen it as well.”

Michael tapped out a thoughtful rhythm on his knee with the edge of his thumb, studying his partner… considering the gravity he’d infused in every carefully constructed word of that speech. And it was a speech— which only served to intrigue Michael all the more. Smythe didn’t care about anyone but himself. It’s why the two of them rubbed along so well, but this… this was a different side of Smythe than he’d ever seen. His partner had been… inspired.

“You like the woman,” Michael accused—because in this context, like was very much an accusation, and they both knew it.

Something happened to Smythe’s face then, a softening to his perpetually rigid expression.

“You do, by God. I didn’t realise you were capable of such tender sentiments, Smythe.”

Smythe had the good grace to look mildly embarrassed at the suggestion. “I’m not certain any normal human being, possessed of a full spectrum of emotions, would describe liking someone as a tender sentiment,” he mumbled. “Besides, liking her would hardly deter me from reducing the boatyard to insolvency, were there sufficient potential for gain. But that isn’t the case here. Why this company, Michael? Why her? Struggling shipyards aren’t exactly difficult to come by. Even those in convenient proximity to all that lovely Welsh iron ore.”

Why her? was not a question Michael was prepared to examine too closely just now, so he waved it away.

“Tell me about Mrs Bevans. I trust you’ve learned something of use over the past fortnight, beyond your growing conviction that she is the most charismatic creature in all of Wales.”