Chapter Seven
“I will keep an open mind,”
Lucian muttered to himself as he heard the door chime.
He made his way downstairs just in time to see the butler swing the door open, admitting a gentleman who paused in the foyer and glanced around for a moment before meeting Lucian’s gaze.
“Hello,”
he said, striving for a friendly tone, “you must be Mr. Bishop.”
The man gave him a cool glance. One that seemed equal parts judgmental and assessing.
“I am. You are—?”
Lucian’s mouth curled into a tight smile. “I am Lucian, the duke’s second son. My brother is away, and my father asked me to see to you.”
“Ah,”
the other man replied.
What did he mean by ah?
“Can I take your hat and coat, sir?”
the butler said.
Mr. Bishop shrugged off his coat and doffed his hat, handing both to the butler without once looking at him.
Lucian’s open mind closed just a smidge at seeing Mr. Bishop’s arrogance. While many people of his class did it, Lucian always thought it rude to ignore servants when they were just doing their jobs. It was also shortsighted because one never knew when one might need to ask something of a servant that might not be in their customary line of work, and staff who’d felt slighted would be much more likely to decline.
“We’ve set out refreshments in the salon, my lord,”
the butler said.
“We could have refreshments, sir,”
Lucian said, “or if you would like to rest after your journey?”
“It’s only three hours,”
Mr. Bishop said in an icy tone. “I hardly think I need to rest. Something to drink would be welcome.”
“Follow me, then,”
Lucian said, gritting his teeth. This was not going well; he already wanted to do something to take this gentleman down a notch or two.
And Lucian didn’t think he—or his father—would take kindly to that idea at all. Even if the notch-taking was excessively creative. Such as, perhaps, challenging him to a charm-off, which Lucian would win handily. Or the opposite: adopting the most obnoxious attitude he could muster to shine a light on Mr. Bishop’s own behavior.
But he couldn’t. Never mind his own future would be in even more jeopardy, it just wouldn’t be fun, and Lucian couldn’t countenance doing something that wasn’t fun.
Even if it would be satisfying.
The two walked down the hall to the salon, an airy room Lucian’s late mother had used as her receiving room. In the years since her death, it had become the place for Lucian and his brother to go when they needed to discuss business or have a quiet conversation.
He’d been using it more often, now that there were actual problems he needed to solve.
The things were laid out on a silver salver atop a round table, with a few cozy chairs and a love seat in front of the fire. The fire was lit but not blazing, a nod to the somewhat temperate weather outside.
“Please sit,”
Lucian said, gesturing vaguely to the seats.
Mr. Bishop took the biggest chair, the one the duchess used to sit in, while Lucian placed himself opposite on the love seat.
“Tea?”
Lucian asked, leaning toward the tea things.
“I would prefer something a bit stronger,”
Mr. Bishop said.
Perhaps the man wasn’t all that bad after all.
Lucian rose again and went to the sideboard, where a collection of various liquors stood. The bottles were as dust-free as if they’d been used the day before, when Lucian knew only he’d been using the room, and he certainly wasn’t cleaning anything. The benefit of having an excellent staff that was terrified of the duke’s disapproval.
He chose the bottle with the darkest liquor, figuring it wasn’t sherry, and poured equal measures into their respective teacups.
He sat again, placing the bottle on the table between them, then raised his glass. “To your visit, Mr. Bishop.”
“Yes,”
the other man said, also raising his glass. “I expect it will be productive.”
They drank, with Lucian pleasantly surprised to find it was a relatively good quality whiskey. His father did not approve of alcohol, so whatever was in the house was usually the cheapest of the allowable possibilities.
“What brings you to town, Mr. Bishop?”
Lucian asked, spreading his right arm across the back of the sofa.
He felt the warm burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat, and he already felt slightly friendlier to the man sitting opposite him. Remarkable what a slug of whiskey could do to alter someone’s opinion.
“I am here to establish my business,”
Mr. Bishop said, still with that rigidly tight tone he’d used before. “And your father has also asked me to consult on the factory he owns with that earl.”
“What business is that?”
Lucian said, hoping to avoid having to discuss the factory with this stranger. His father hadn’t trusted Lucian enough to give him complete oversight, instead appointing some sort of watchdog to review whatever Lucian did? Or wanted to do. Did Mr. Bishop have veto power?
And if so, why had his father even entrusted it with his son in the first place? Was it so he could watch him fail?
Whatever happened, he vowed to himself, he would not fail.
“My business?”
Mr. Bishop echoed, giving him a narrowed look. Lucian immediately felt both his hackles rise and his interest pique. What could be so potentially intriguing that he didn’t even want to discuss it?
He donned his second-most charming smile and waited.
People usually couldn’t resist filling silence.
“It’s an investment, of sorts,”
Mr. Bishop said slowly. “I invest in a good, and I allow other people to invest alongside of me, and they persuade others to invest with them, and soon we have a significant amount of money for our goods and services.”
“Which are . . . ?”
Lucian said, keeping his expression deliberately bland.
Mr. Bishop shrugged. “This and that. Whatever might be of interest that could generate sales.”
“Do you have any investors yet?”
Mr. Bishop stiffened even more, despite that seeming nearly impossible.
“A few,”
he admitted. “Not enough.”
Or it could be, because Lucian could admit to his dislike, that he was reading into the other man’s behavior.
“Your father has been very generous, I must say. Our kinship is distant, but he could not have been more cordial when I contacted him about the opportunity. His invitation came at a very good time as well,”
he continued, unconsciously tugging on his collar, as though it was suddenly tight.
“Ah,”
Lucian said noncommittally, finishing his whiskey with one long draft. He wondered what the story was behind Mr. Bishop’s need to leave wherever he’d been. He imagined his father had no inkling of that. “More?”
he asked, tilting his cup toward the other man.
Mr. Bishop didn’t reply, just held his own cup out for Lucian to refill it.
“The duke suggested it would help my efforts if I established myself in London.”
In other words, to meet enough people who had the money to fund his scheme and not necessarily the sense to look too closely at what the man was offering.
If it wasn’t so blackguardly, he would have admired it.
As it was, all he could feel was furious anger. That his father was encouraging toward this man when he couldn’t find anything to admire in his own son. That the duke was putting this distant relative in a position over Lucian, even, making it clear just what he thought of his second son. That within just a few moments’ time, Lucian had surmised that this Mr. Bishop was doing far more nefarious things than Lucian had ever dreamed of.
It stung all over again, even though he should be accustomed to it by now.
Why was this his reality now? Hosting a pedantic boor who was intent on fleecing Society’s best people while trying to resolve an irresolvable problem regarding a factory and an impetuous earl.
While also still obsessing about a woman who’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.
Wonderful. All that was missing now was for a comet to appear again, somehow removing his sense of taste, smell, and touch. Basically anything that brought him pleasure.
Diantha marched down the street, trying to stoke the fiery resolve she’d had when she put on her coat, and not the trepidation she’d felt since that night.
He’d paid a call the day after. Even if his visit didn’t carry intense and conflicting emotions, her parents were too wound up about the lawsuit to meet their enemy’s son with any grace.
It just made the most sense to refuse to see him, especially since their butler had indicated that Lucifer had asked for her specifically before asking for her parents.
He’d seemed to get the message, since that had been the only time he’d come by. Diantha told herself she was grateful he’d understood, even though a tiny part of her wished he had insisted and stormed through the door to find her.
And then what?
Proclaim his feelings for her, even though they’d only met once for a few hours? Demand her hand in marriage when their parents were mortal enemies?
“That only works in Shakespeare,”
she muttered, then caught herself. “And it didn’t even work there. Romeo and Juliet, remember?”
And now she was talking to herself.
But if it kept her from thinking too much about what she was about to do, it was fine. Even if a few of the people passing by gave her odd looks.
Because she was going to willingly pay a call to the Duke of Waxford—most definitely not his son—in an attempt to resolve the factory dispute.
She’d spent a few frustrating days reading the materials from the lawsuit and the court’s final decision. It was all clear as mud, but what remained true was that her parents were working themselves into a frenzy worrying about what would happen.
Diantha had told them she would solve it, so solve it she would.
It just meant she’d have to speak to the person she’d heard nothing but horrible things about, the same person who was the parent of the man she’d kissed in some wild act of rebellion.
An act she came close to regretting, though she couldn’t say she entirely regretted it. There were times, late at night when she couldn’t sleep, when she thought about how it felt to be subsumed in that kiss. To be held in his arms, to be thinking of nothing beyond where their lips met.
Though, those times were quickly followed by her reprimanding herself.
“Argh,”
she said, shaking her head in dismay. It would not do. She had allowed herself one night of fun, one night of adventure, and that was all over now.
Her parents needed her to solve their problem; she didn’t need to create her own problems. There were plenty out there to go around already.
All too soon, she’d arrived at the duke’s town house. She paused on the sidewalk in front of it, staring up and up. It was a grand house, the tallest on the street, with a multitude of windows catching the gleam of the sun’s rays.
Entirely daunting.
But she had promised.
She tightened her jaw, striding up the few steps to the door. Before she could think, she’d raised the impressive door knocker and banged it twice. Within a minute, the door was opened, and an equally impressive butler looked down at her. His expression changed when he’d assessed her, clearly understanding she was a lady, but not understanding why she was alone.
“I am Lady Diantha Courtenay here to see the Duke of Waxford,”
Diantha said, raising her chin. “On business,”
she clarified, in case there was a general ban on any Courtenays entering the building for social interactions.
The butler’s mouth opened as though he was about to speak, but instead he shook his head. “Come in, my lady.”
The entrance hall was just as grand as the outside. Three rectangular marble tables were placed in the room, with three large mirrors hanging over each one. The chandelier in the middle of the ceiling sparkled, even though the candles were not yet lit.
It was obviously intended to be an intimidating entrance hall, and it worked. Diantha resisted the urge to turn on her heel and run back out the door.
“The duke is not at home, my lady. But Lord Lucian is here. He is handling all of the duke’s business while the duke is away. Come with me.”
The butler didn’t wait for her answer, just headed toward one of the doors leading off the entrance hall.
Diantha’s throat tightened. She had had no intention of seeing him again, except possibly at a distance in public. But perhaps this was for the best: she could see him and know that that night had been an anomaly. He could not possibly be as good-looking as she remembered. Nor could he possibly be that charming.
The butler put his hand on the knob, then opened the door. “Lady Diantha Courtenay to see you, my lord,”
the butler announced.
Diantha drew a deep breath, stepping into the room.
Damn it.
He was as good-looking.
He stepped forward, a slight smile on his lips, his gaze focused directly and entirely on her. “It is a pleasure to see you again, my lady.”
And he was as charming.
Damn it.