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Smythe rubbed a hand across his jaw before heaving a sigh. “The only surviving child of Aled and Margaret Abernathy, it was assumed that Gwendolen would be the sole inheritor of her father’s business holdings. However, in the final weeks of his life he made amendments to his will and arranged a hasty marriage between his daughter and one Walter Bevans, a foreman at Llanelli and presumably a friend to her father.”

Michael barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes. Yes. I knew all that already. Walter Bevans was a reckless, ambitious fool who took a multigenerational, well-respected shipyard and within three years’ time, ran it into the ground—and then, just as idiotically, put himself in the ground as well.”

He’d already cobbled together a rough timeline of Mrs Bevans’s life and a fairly detailed overview of the business and its current standing. He knew the yard’s production capacity and inventory, the age and condition of its equipment, its debts and credits, and its standing with suppliers. And Smythe damn well knew it.

What Michael had not been able to glean was a more human perspective: loyalties and rivalries, personal grudges that might be leveraged, weaknesses that could be exploited. In short, everything that mattered when a business owner would not simply bow to logic and sell to him.

He let his focus soften as he considered, his gaze drifting over the charcoal sketch of his father’s estate—now his half-brother’s. “If she had been raised to run that shipyard, what did it mean that her father had taken it from her at the final hour? Or had he simply recognized that her true preference was more conventional and arranged matters accordingly? It seems unlikely, but he had to consider the possibility. After all, a woman wanting to marry is hardly surprising.”

Michael’s raised brows were met with an inscrutable stare. Apparently, Smythe’s newfound allegiance to the woman extended to withholding his observations.

No matter. Smythe would break. He could no more resist the lure of a good hunt than Michael himself.

“Perhaps,” Michael began again, “she was never forthright in her desire to wed. A parent’s approval can be a powerful motivational force, and she had no siblings upon whom to shift the burden of their business. If she once regarded marriage with romantic aspirations, might the prospect of a less odious husband appeal to her now?”

Smythe let out a snort, smothering the sound beneath his hand. “Playing matchmaker, are we?”

“Why not?” Michael settled deeper into his chair, feeling the telltale tug of a fish on the hook. “Assuming Mrs Bevans is at least passably attractive, finding a gentleman willing to offer for her should prove simple enough. We needn’t even provide financial incentive. The promise of her fortune once the business is sold will be inducement enough.”

“It won’t work.”

Michael wasn’t entirely convinced either, not really, but he hoped the notion might wiggle the hook a little deeper, so he pressed the point. “That hideous, is she? Face like a dog? Well, it’s no matter. England is flush with little lordlings, encumbered by great estates and empty coffers, who would all too happily overlook a pug snout and watery brown eyes if the union promised to prolong their collapse by another generation.”

“No,” Smythe ground out. “It won’t work because, by all accounts, she never wanted to marry the man. I would say her father enacted some form of coercion to see it done, but that seems out of character. No one’s got a bad word to say about Abernathy… or his relationship with his daughter. By all accounts, the man genuinely respected her. That said, I can’t say why he saddled her with Bevans of all men, but you can be certain he believed he was acting in her best interest.”

Michael inclined his head, having come to the same conclusion himself. “And she went along with the marriage because she trusted Abernathy. A singularly foolish thing. So it was coercion of the worst sort. Love.” He spat the word with all the derision it deserved. “Sentimental hogwash that demands a blind, almost willful surrender of one’s own judgment.”

And this was precisely why Michael kept his loyalties pared down to one. It was also why he preferred to maintain a distance of roughly one hundred and fifty miles between himself and his brother… the sole individual capable of tinkering with his emotions like a horologist rifling through the guts of a cuckoo clock.

Of course, his partner didn’t disagree with that assessment. Michael doubted there was a single person in the world who held that kind of power over Smythe.

“Who does she trust?” Michael asked. “Henry Pryse. Or Harry, I think he’s called. What do you make of the man?”

“He’ll be of no use to us. Harry came to the yard as a lad and worked his way through every rank. He knows the business and all its particulars and, to all appearances, enjoys the work. But he stays for her, I’d say. He’s well liked, beyond the reach of local gossip. If you imagine him conveniently placed as an inside man, you’re dead wrong. There isn’t a scrap of self-interest to tempt. I offered him significantly more than the amount you and I discussed, and he wouldn’t even entertain the notion.”

Smythe’s jaw squared, teeth grinding as if every second of the conversation was proving painful in the extreme. And yet this was the sort of maneuvering he normally reveled in. Hell, Michael thought, his partner might even like this part best—more than watching the wreckage pile up and the stink of desperation that hung in the air just before the inevitable collapse. More even than the first sip of whisky afterward, that sharp burn marking another victory.

“I’m telling you this is a waste of time.”

Michael huffed a laugh.

“What?”

“You were meant to be gathering intelligence, and you’ve gone and joined the opposition.”

“I’ve… That’s not—” Smythe let out a slow breath and sank into the chair opposite Michael.

“I did as I said I would and approached the men I thought could be tempted with better prospects. Not one of them showed so much as a flicker of interest.” His words came faster, louder, as he ticked off the failures on his fingers. “I offered them other yards, better positions, higher wages—even entire estates for a few of the more promising foremen. All better than staying. I’m telling you, they won’t leave her, and⁠—”

“And?”

Smythe’s hands snapped into fists, then retreated into his lap, his gaze skipping restlessly around the room before it settled somewhere off in the middle distance. “And I would hate to see Mrs Bevans destroyed for no good reason.”

Michael stilled, not altogether certain what to make of Smythe’s sudden swell of conscience. One of their more recent acquisitions had been a lumber mill owned by Smythe’s own brother-in-law. It wasn’t even that Smythe disliked the man. There was simply a wound left unattended, and Smythe had caught the scent of blood. That was all it took. Well… that, and a frankly obscene payout.

He was a soulless, great cat of a predator. And with the wealth the two of them had already amassed lining his pockets, Michael suspected it wasn’t even financial gain that drove him anymore. No, he simply enjoyed the kill. And yet there he was, a lion standing guard over a wounded lamb.

Which begged the question: what the hell did Gwen Bevans do to him?