A Hellion in Her Bed (3 page)

She gestured to a chair by the bed, and Jarret warily took a seat.

“That fool Wright tells me I cannot leave my bed for a month at the very least,” she grumbled. “A month! I cannot be away from the brewery for that long.”

“You must take as long as necessary to get well,” Jarret said, keeping his voice noncommittal until he was sure what she was up to.

“The only way I shall loll about in this bed for a month is if I have someone reliable looking after things at the brewery. Someone I trust. Someone with a vested interest in making sure it runs smoothly.”

When her gaze sharpened on him, he froze. So that’s what she was plotting.

“Not a chance,” he said, jumping to his feet. “Don’t even think it.” He wasn’t about to put himself under Gran’s thumb. Bad enough that she was trying to dictate when he married—she wasn’t going to run his whole life, too.

She took a labored breath. “You once begged me for this very opportunity.”

“That was a long time ago.” When he’d been desperate to find a place for himself. Then he’d learned that no matter what place you found, Fate could snatch it from you at a
moment’s notice. Your hopes for the future could be dashed with a word, your parents taken in the blink of an eye, and your family’s good name ruined for spite.

Nothing in life was certain. So a man was better off traveling light, with no attachments and no dreams. It was the only way to prevent disappointment.

“You’re going to inherit the brewery one day,” she pointed out.

“Only if we all manage to marry within the year,” he countered. “But assuming that I inherit, I’ll hire a manager. Which you should have done years ago.”

That made her frown. “I do not want some stranger running my brewery.”

The perennial argument was getting old.

“If you don’t want to do it, I’ll have to put Desmond in charge,” she added.

His temper flared. Desmond Plumtree was Mother’s first cousin, a man they all despised—especially him. Gran had threatened before to leave the brewery to the bastard and she
knew
how Jarret felt about that, so she was using his feelings against him.

“Go ahead, put Desmond in charge,” he said, though it took every ounce of his will not to fall prey to her manipulation.

“He knows even less about it than you do,” she said peevishly. “Besides, he’s busy with his latest enterprise.”

He hid his relief. “There has to be someone else who knows the business well enough to take over.”

She coughed into her handkerchief. “No one I trust.”

“And you trust
me
to run it?” He uttered a cynical laugh. “I seem to recall your telling me a few years ago that gamblers
are parasites on society. Aren’t you worried I’ll suck the life out of your precious brewery?”

She had the good grace to color. “I only said that because I couldn’t stand watching you waste your keen mind at the gaming tables. That is not a suitable life for a clever man like yourself, especially when I know you are capable of more. You have had some success with your investments. It wouldn’t take you long to get your bearings at the brewery. And I will be here for you to consult if you need advice.”

The plaintive note in her voice gave him pause. She sounded almost … desperate. His eyes narrowed. He might be able to make this work to his advantage, after all.

He sat down once more. “If you really want me to run the brewery for a month, then I want something in return.”

“You will have a salary, and I am sure we could come to terms on—”

“Not money. I want you to rescind your ultimatum.” He leaned forward to stare her down. “No more threats to disinherit us if we don’t marry according to your dictate. Things will return to how they were before.”

She glared at him. “That is not going to happen.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be hiring a manager.” He rose and headed for the door.

“Wait!” she cried.

He paused to glance back at her with eyebrows raised.

“What if I rescind it just for
you
?”

He fought a smile. She must be desperate indeed if she was willing to bargain. “I’m listening.”

“I will have Mr. Bogg change the will so that you inherit the brewery no matter what.” Her voice turned bitter. “You can stay a bachelor until you die.”

It was worth considering. If he owned the brewery, he could help his brother and sisters if they couldn’t meet Gran’s terms by the end of the year. They’d be on their own until Gran died, of course, but then Jarret could support them. It was a better situation than their present one. “I could live with that.”

She dragged in a rasping breath. “But you’ll have to agree to stay on at the brewery until the year is up.”

He tensed. “Why?”

“Too many people depend on it for their livelihood. If I am to leave the place to you, I must be sure you can keep it afloat, even if you hire a manager to run it once I am gone. You need to know enough to be able to hire the right person, and I need assurance that you will not let it rot.”

“God forbid you should trust your own grandson to keep it safe.” But she did have a point. He hadn’t set foot in the place in nineteen years. What did he know about the brewing business anymore?

He could learn. And he would, too, if that’s what it took to stop Gran from meddling in their lives for good. But he would do it on his own terms.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll stay on until the year is up.” When she broke into a smile, he added, “But I want complete control. I’ll keep you informed about the business, and you may express your opinions, but my decisions will be final.”

That wiped the smile from her face.

“I’ll run Plumtree Brewery as I see fit without any interference from you,” he went on. “And you will put that in writing.”

The steel in her blue eyes told him she wasn’t as ill as she pretended. “You can do a great deal of damage in a year.”

“Exactly. If you’ll recall, this wasn’t my idea.”

“Then you must promise not to institute any major changes.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

Alarm flared in her features. “At least promise not to make risky investments.”

“No. You either let me have full control or find yourself a manager.”

It felt good to have the upper hand. He refused to have her coming behind him, second-guessing every decision. If he was going to run the place, he would run it his way. And once the year was up, he’d be free to live his life as he pleased … and ensure that his siblings could do so as well.

Not that Gran would accept his terms. She’d never given up control of anything, for even a day. She certainly wouldn’t give it to her “parasite” of a grandson for a year.

So it was with some surprise that he heard her say, “Very well, I will meet your demands. I will have it put into writing for you by tomorrow.”

The gleam in her eyes gave him pause, but it was gone so fast, he was sure he’d imagined it.

“I do have one caveat,” she continued. “You must keep Mr. Croft on as your secretary.”

Jarret groaned. Gran’s secretary at the brewery was one of the strangest men he’d ever met. “Must I?”

“I know he seems odd, but I promise that in a week or so you will find yourself glad that you kept him on. He’s indispensable to the brewery.”

Well, it was a small price to pay for gaining his life back. He’d definitely gotten the better end of their bargain.

P
lumtree Brewery was nothing like Annabel Lake had expected. Breweries in her town of Burton were small, cozy places that smelled of hops and roasting barley. Plumtree Brewery smelled primarily of the coal that fired the massive steam engine she was gaping at. It powered long rakes that moved in eerie silence to stir the malt in the twelve-foot-high boilers. Her brother’s brewery, Lake Ale, had nothing on this scale. Perhaps if it had …

No, the equipment wasn’t causing Lake Ale’s present crisis. Hugh’s drinking was the cause of
that
.

“You there, what are you doing?” asked a workman with arms the width of tree trunks, who was loading a barrel onto a wagon.

She picked up her box, careful not to jar the contents. “I’m looking for Mrs. Hester Plumtree.”

“That way.” He tipped his head toward a staircase leading up to a second-floor gallery.

As she mounted the stairs, she drank in her surroundings.
The place was a brewer’s dream. The iron floors and brick walls made it nearly fireproof, and the gleaming coppers were two stories high. Imagine measuring hops into
that.
It boggled the mind!

After she, her sister-in-law Sissy, and Geordie had arrived in the city early this afternoon, she’d sampled Plumtree’s porter in the inn. She had to admit it was impressive, nearly rivaling her own recipe.

A smug smile touched her lips. Nearly.

With some maneuvering, she opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into another world. A woman clearly ran this brewery. The outer office had fashionably striped settees, walnut chairs, and beautiful but sturdy rugs. Annabel couldn’t imagine a man caring about such things.

Sitting at a neat walnut desk in the center of the room was a slender blond clerk, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice she’d entered. She approached the desk, but he continued to excise clippings from a newspaper with a razor, making precise cuts along lines that appeared to be ruled in.

She cleared her throat.

He jumped up so dramatically that his chair fell over. “Who … what …” As he spotted her, he fixed a smile to his face that made it look like a skull in repose. “May I help you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name is Annabel Lake. I’d like to see Mrs. Hester Plumtree, if you please.”

Alarm spread over his features. “Dear me, you mustn’t. That is, you
can’t
. It’s impossible. She’s unavailable.”

“How could she be unavailable?” Annabel knew a dodge when she saw one. Beyond him was only one door. It had to be Mrs. Plumtree’s, and since the clerk hadn’t said she was out, the woman must be closeted in there, avoiding visitors.
“I heard she’s here from dawn to dusk every day, and it’s not quite three.”

He blinked, clearly thrown off guard. “Well, yes … that is true, but not today. You must leave. No one is allowed in. No one. Leave your name and where you can be reached, and when she becomes available once more—”

“How long will that be?”

Sheer panic crossed his face. “How should I know?” He wrung his hands, casting a nervous glance at the door. What a strange little man.

She softened her tone, attempting to put him at his ease. “Please, it’s very important that I speak with her.”

“No, no, no, no, no … It’s out of the question. Quite entirely out of the question. Not allowed. She is … I mean … You simply must go!” He came around the desk as if to escort her out.

Annabel hadn’t come all this way just to be tossed from the office by some odd clerk. Before the man could react, she darted around the desk the other way and rushed through the door into the office beyond.

The person behind the massive mahogany desk was decidedly not an aging woman. A
man
sat there, a young man about her age or slightly older, with raven hair and handsome features.

“Who the devil are you?” she burst out.

Leaning back in his chair, he laughed. “I rather think that should be
my
line.”

The clerk rushed in to grab her arm. “My lord, forgive me.” He tried to tug her toward the door. “Beg pardon, but I don’t know why the young lady—”

“Let her go, Croft.” The man stood, his eyes still glinting with amusement. “I’ll take it from here.”

“But my lord, you said no one is to know that your grandmother—”

“It’s all right. I’ll handle it.”

“Oh.” Two spots of color deepened in the clerk’s cheeks. “Of course. Well then. If you think it’s safe.”

The man chuckled. “If she bites or sets fire to my desk, Croft, you’ll be the first person I call.”

Croft released her arm. “There you go, miss. Talk to his lordship. He’ll take care of you.” Then he slid from the room, leaving her alone with what could only be one of Hester Plumtree’s grandsons.

Oh, dear. Annabel had heard about the outrageous Sharpe men from Sissy, who’d never met a gossip rag she didn’t like. When the man strode for the door, shutting it firmly behind her, she felt a moment’s panic—especially when he returned to give her a thorough once-over.

She wished her day gown didn’t shriek of last year’s fashions, but it couldn’t be helped. Times were lean in the Lake family. She’d rather not waste her funds on clothes when she could save toward a good school for Geordie, since Sissy and Hugh clearly couldn’t afford one.

Which of the infamous Sharpes was he? The madcap youngest grandson, Lord Gabriel, whom people called the Angel of Death for his reckless horse racing and all-black attire? No, for this man wore a waistcoat of buff velvet beneath his dark blue coat.

Might he be the eldest, the notorious rakehell? Not him, either—Sissy had just this morning read to her the news that the Marquess of Stoneville was honeymooning in America with his new wife.

That left only the middle grandson, whose name she couldn’t recall. He was a gambler and probably a devilish
rogue like his brothers. No man could have the features of Michelangelo’s David without attracting a great many women. And those unearthly eyes—they seemed to change from a gorgeous blue to an equally gorgeous green with every trick of the light. Men as handsome as that quickly learned that they could take advantage of their good looks whenever they wished. Hence the roguery.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Croft,” he said in a low rumble, leaning against the desk’s cluttered surface. “Gran has trained him to hold off intrusions at all costs, Mrs.…”

“Miss,” she corrected him automatically. When a wolfish smile tugged at his full lips, she fought the sudden shiver coursing down her spine. “Miss Annabel Lake. I’m a brewster, Lord …”

“Jarret. Jarret Sharpe.” His face had stiffened.

That wasn’t unusual, she thought cynically. The men running the large breweries seemed to have nothing but contempt for female brewers. That was why she’d come to Mrs. Plumtree in the first place—so she wouldn’t be brushed off.