Page 6

“Your objections have been noted,” said Michael. “Is there anything else I should be made aware of?”

Smythe’s gaze dropped to his folded hands, remained there for a long moment, then slowly made its way back up to Michael’s. His reluctance to share whatever came next gleamed starkly in his uncharacteristically troubled eyes.

“The yard manager, Harry… he’s convinced her to hire a consultant. They’ve already begun making inquiries through the bank and shipping agents. He’s been quiet about it, careful not to cause undue alarm over the yard’s state of affairs, but he’s determined to find someone competent. Someone versed in finance and negotiation, freeing Mrs Bevans to shift her focus back to the management of the yard.”

Michael felt the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile, but inside, oh, his heart was picking up speed at an alarming rate.

He didn’t believe in fate, but neither was he one to ignore an advantage when it fell into his lap. “As it happens, I am rather well versed in both finance and negotiation.” He flipped open his diary, skating a forefinger down the overburdened schedule. “And it will, of course, be my pleasure to place my many years of expertise at her disposal.”

“You leave for Exeter in two days to oversee the restructuring of Branford and Sons, then to Devonshire the following fortnight.”

“Come now, Smythe. Your poor Mrs Bevans needs a capable mind to combat big, bad Lord Michael. It would be churlish in the extreme for plain old Mr Anson to sit back and offer nothing in the way of support when he is so perfectly placed to assist her. You may go to Exeter in my stead, and Gabriel will understand my unavoidable delay. It seems my presence is required in Wales.”

“Gabriel most certainly will not understand. You were meant to travel to Devonshire last month—and the one before. Are you trying to see how many times you can put off a duke’s heir before he sends an entourage of footmen to physically put you in his carriage? I know you hate the place but⁠—”

“He’s not a duke’s heir. He’s my brother.”

“Brother or not, the conveyance that abducts you, should you send yet another letter of regret, will bear the ducal crest.”

“And he knows I would see him if my schedule allowed.”

“Your schedule does allow it!” Smythe flipped the book around, pointing to the penciled notation, where it was underlined… twice. “Right bloody there.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, and after a silent exchange, his partner closed the book and heaved a sigh. “I’ll have Thomas draft a letter to your brother explaining your delay. But I still say this is a bloody stupid idea.”

“So noted.”

“There are a few other appointments that fall between Exeter and your scheduled trip to Devonshire. There’s dinner with Lionel Blackwood, and your audience with the Welsh iron syndicate. Then there’s the matter of the new foundry lease in Bath that needs to be addressed.”

“Keep the meeting with the syndicate. That lot is as slippery as an eel and twice as difficult to gather in one room. I have no desire to begin the process anew. Send my regrets for dinner with Lionel, and as for Bath, we’ll discuss the situation as it unfolds. I want to give Markum a few days to stew after Barings has withdrawn his credit anyway.”

“Yes. Very well.”

“Oh… one more thing, Smythe.” Michael shifted forward in his chair. “How did she handle the harbormaster?”

Smythe raised a brow. “She was back in production by the following morning. I don’t think she even skipped lunch to see it done. They moved to an old slipway adjacent to the yard.”

“Smart,” Michael acknowledged.

After settling the last of their lingering business, Smythe cleared the room without further protestation. Alone once more, Michael let his thoughts linger decorously over the compelling Mrs Bevans.

The prospect of meeting that quicksilver intelligence head-on filled him with a restless energy that bordered on giddiness. Though every gambit thus far had failed to produce the desired result, each one had revealed something new about his opponent.

Direct pressure was futile, only igniting that fierce pride of hers, and punitive measures did little beyond confirm her authority. Subtle bribery, flattery, the promise of an easier path—they’d all been equally ineffective when she’d been raised to value duty above comfort.

And yet that same upbringing, the partnership she’d once enjoyed with her father, rendered her vulnerable in another way. Surely she would come to rely upon Michael’s counsel in time—to value the steady presence of another capable mind working alongside her own. Once he had her trust, the rest would come easily enough.

He pictured a faceless woman by his side, working through the day's business, then lingering over brandy by the fire, drawn ever closer by their mutual dislike for Lord Michael. And through that intimacy, her every habit and vulnerability would become a map for him.

It was true that he didn’t yet have a plan, as such, but he’d no doubt the most effective course would make itself known once he arrived.

Positioned close, he could begin planting subtle seeds of doubt. She was exhausting herself proving something to a dead man who’d never wanted this life for her. Her exhaustion, her ceaseless striving was surely the last thing Abernathy would have wanted for his beloved daughter. As Mr Anson, he would convince her that, while they might not like Lord Michael or approve of his methods, her people would be safe in his hands.

The argument would be an easy one to make because, in this instance, every word would be true.

Not that honesty was a requirement in such matters, but it was convenient.

Given time, that seed would take root, and basic human self interest would do the rest.