It Happened One Midnight (PG8) (36 page)

And then slowly, absently, he began rotating a glass of water on his desk round and round, slowly, with his fingers. Twisting it to and fro. To and fro.

“I’ve a number of buyers interested in the property, Mr. Redmond. Can you tell me the nature of your offer? Perhaps your plans for the property?”

During his long silence, Mr. Bean had clearly decided to be kind and to humor him, that much was clear. He didn’t believe for a moment that Jonathan had the capital.

“I propose to pay for a portion of it in cash, a portion of it in a percentage share of my printing business, and to make payments on the rest. I can provide statements of my earnings and an accurate forecast of my future earnings.”

A little silence ensued.

“Payments.” Mr. Bean said the word delicately. As if he’d never dealt with anyone who would need to do anything so plebeian as to make payments. But it wasn’t unsympathetic. He had the look of a man who would love to glance at the clock in order to usher Jonathan along, but who was too innately polite.

“And my plans are to either cease altogether the use of child labor, or institute dramatic changes. My first attempt will be find ways to train the children working there in a legitimate lifetime trade, find homes or apprenticeships for them, and hire adults.”

Mr. Bean leaned slowly back in his chair then.

He went still. Thoughtful.

“Even the girls?” His voice was clipped now.

“Of course.”

Mr. Bean leaned forward again. He folded his lips in on themselves. He recommenced idly turning the tumbler of water. It was winding Jonathan’s nerves tauter and tauter. He was tempted to reach out and flatten a hand on top of Bean’s to make him stop.

Too late. It finally wobbled and tipped, and water cascaded everywhere.

Jonathan leaped backward.

Mr. Bean shot to his feet. “Good heavens, I do apologize, Mr. Redmond! It’s just . . .”

“Please don’t worry about it. It’s just water.”

Jonathan fished out a handkerchief and handed it to Mr. Bean, who, flushed and abashed, diligently mopped and dabbed in silence for a time.

He folded Jonathan’s handkerchief into neat little fours. “My apologies for drenching your . . .” He pushed up his spectacles higher on his nose again. He ran his thumb over the corner of the handkerchief.

He looked up slowly. His expression was odd.

“Will you do something for me, Mr. Redmond?”

I’ll kiss you on the mouth if you sell me the mill.
“What might that be?”

“Will you say”—he cleared his throat and intoned—“ ‘Get off him, you fetid bastard!’ In a quite furious tone?”

Jonathan blinked. “I beg your . . . well, if you insist. ‘Get off him . . .’ ”

He halted.

Because then he
knew
.

“It’s
you!
” they shouted simultaneously. Gleefully.

“
You
saved me from those ruffians!” Mr. Bean was beside himself.

“You were the fellow outside the Plum & Pear who was beset by those . . . fetid bastards!”

“They did stink!” Mr. Bean said happily.

“Powerfully!”

“You gave me your handkerchief! I bled all over it!”

Jonathan silently, with great ceremony, rolled up his sleeve. “And I have a nice little knife wound. It impresses the ladies.”

Mr. Bean admired the gash, then sat back, beaming, shaking his head wonderingly.

“It’s the oddest thing, Mr. Redmond, but I’ve been inscrutable about my reluctance to sell the mill to certain parties, and it’s . . . for the very reasons you cited. That mill is a moral burden to me. I loathe the use of child labor. And the only way children will be treated more humanely, that things will change, is if passionate, influential individuals fight for stronger laws. I wonder”—he leaned forward—“have you considered running for parliament, Mr. Redmond? I strongly suspect you’d have a good deal of support. You seem to have the boldness of a politician. Saving my life makes an excellent story—quite revelatory of character, wouldn’t you say? Certainly the Redmond name holds a good deal of sway, and you’ve an undeniable presence.”

He had an “undeniable presence,” did he?

It was Jonathan’s turn to lean back in his chair and study Mr. Bean. “I
have
been told I’ve a certain amount to recommend me.”

He closed his eyes. The idea spiraled, glittering, like a guinea into the well of his mind.

And he knew, just knew, in the way he always did, that the idea was brilliant and right. And a peculiar sense of peace came over him.

“I think, Mr. Bean . . . you’ve just said something very important.”

“Splendid. I look forward to supporting you in the next election, Mr. Redmond.”

Jonathan grinned.

And they sat for a moment in bemused, delighted silence.

“Well,” Mr. Bean said finally, with a drum of his fingers. “This is serendipitous. You don’t know how I’ve longed for an opportunity to thank my rescuer.”

Jonathan leaned back and folded his arms behind his head.

“Tell me, Mr. Bean . . . just how grateful are you feeling?”

Chapter 29

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE THE
Diamonds of the First Water decks were due to appear in stores was a sleepless one for hundreds of members of the ton.

All the young ladies who’d posed for Wyndham stared up at their ceilings, rigid with tension, praying that Lady Grace Worthington hadn’t been chosen, and that they had.

Lady Grace Worthington lay awake all night trying to decide just how many decks she would purchase, for she was confident she would be featured. She hugged herself with pleasure, imagining her face in Almack’s and at every fine house in all of England.

And dozens of young men worried over the wagers they’d placed via White’s Betting Books on the young women who would appear in the deck. And who Redmond would choose, if indeed he did choose, as he’d said he would do.

And just before dawn, Charlie and Klaus and Klaus’s new assistant, William, began loading up the cart under cover of predawn darkness. The deliveries to shops all over London, in particular to the Burlington Arcade, would need to be finished by the time they opened.

And each and every one of them wondered: Would Jonathan Redmond really choose a bride from a deck of cards?

A
ND OVER IN
the Building of Dubious Occupations, Tommy de Ballesteros hadn’t slept a wink, either, and not just because Rutherford was home all evening apparently entertaining a lady guest who must have been the same size as he was, such was the crashing and thumping.
Rhythmic
thumping. She tried hard not to imagine it, and then felt envious, and lonely, and achingly sad, and frightened.

Because she knew today was the day the Diamonds of the First Water decks were meant to be delivered to shops.

And the day Jonathan Redmond was rumored to be choosing a bride from the deck.

If she rolled over and breathed in, she could still smell him faintly on her pillow. Or so she imagined. This made her spring upright and sit at the very edge of her bed and admire the stripes sent through her blinds by the moon. She pushed her feet into them, as though they were a soothing stream.

She needed soothing. Today was an important day for her, too.

For she’d come to a decision about Jonathan and Prescott.

H
E HADN’T SENT
word ahead to his family that he would be leaving London for Pennyroyal Green. He simply rode all the way home, relishing the brisk weather, the opportunity to gallop, the time to plan and savor his mission.

At Redmond House, he leaped from his horse, gave the reins to the groomsman, and dashed up the stairs to the house, handing off his coat and hat to the waiting footman.

He paused only to smooth his hair in the mirror, knock the dust from his boots, and then he took the marble stairs two at a time up to his father’s library.

His father was ensconced at his huge shining desk in his brown and cream refuge of a library, bent over documents spread out the length of it. Jonathan could see a thinning spot on the top of his gray head. For a moment it was poignant. Isaiah Redmond is not indestructible. He will fray at the edges, crumple, return to dust, like everyone eventually does.

Knowing this only solidified Jonathan’s resolve.

He remained still for a moment, watching his father, lit by the light of the great window, unguarded, absorbed, frowning faintly. Probably still wondering why Romulus Bean still refused to sell the mill to him, but unworried; he would find a way to get what he wanted, for he always did.

Jonathan rapped at the open door and his father’s head shot up.

Surprise flickered in his eyes. Followed by a fleeting moment of what may just have been a bit of unease.

“Well! What can I do for you Jonathan? Have you come to make me the proudest man alive by telling me you’ve drawn a bride from a deck of cards?”

“It is indeed the designated day,” Jonathan said calmly, unsurprised his father knew. “But I thought you might like to do the honors. Since you inspired the idea.”

He slipped his hand into his coat and retrieved the deck of cards. Gestured with it.

This
his father clearly wasn’t expecting. He stared at him, surprised..

“Jonathan . . . I honestly . . .”

Without invitation Jonathan strode over to his father’s desk and pulled up a chair. His father swiftly collected his documents, as if he feared Jonathan’s cards might taint them, but not before Jonathan saw the words written across the top of one: “Mercury Club Proposal for Acquisition of Lancaster Mill.”

Jonathan pushed the deck of cards over to his father.

“Go ahead, Father. Turn over the first card. Because that’s who my bride will be.”

His father shifted his gaze, making a great show of looking at the clock behind him, then heaved a long suffering sigh, hiked a brow, delicately plucked up the top card, and turned it over.

The Queen of Hearts lay on the table.

They were silent.

“Beautiful color printing, wouldn’t you say?” Jonathan coaxed. When it seemed his father would say nothing.

“It’s quite fine,” Isaiah said absently. He seemed riveted by the image.

Jonathan watched thunder slowly gather in his father’s face. His hands trembled. His jaw turned to granite.

His father looked slowly up at him.

“What the devil do you mean by this?” Every word was etched in cold fury.

“Her name is Thomasina de Ballesteros. But you already know that, as you had a little conversation with her. And there it is, right there”—Jonathan tapped the card—“printed right across the bottom in tiny letters. I am going to marry her. And you will love her. Because I love her.”

His father’s mouth was trembling in fury. It was a moment before he could finally make words emerge, and they were scraped raw. “How
dare
—”

Jonathan held up a hand. “I repeat: You will love her. You will receive her in this house.
And
you will allow Cynthia Brightly into this house. And you will love her, too, because I love her, and Miles loves her, and Violet loves her. Because it is
you,
Father, who has caused the upheaval and division in your family. You who are causing your own unhappiness with your attempts to make yourself happy. Not your children. You. And the only thing that matters in life is that you have people to love. Surely, somewhere inside you, you know this.”

His father’s jaw was dropped now.

And then he clapped it shut again swiftly. And his words emerged an arid hiss.

“How
dare
you speak to me this way.” It was a tone of voice that would have terrified Jonathan when he was a child. “If you marry this girl you won’t receive another pen—”

“And with regards to my allowance,” Jonathan continued smoothly, as if his father hadn’t said a word, “you’ll find the entirety of what I have been paid for the past two years in your account. I’ve doubled my wealth inside a year. Next year I intend to triple it. And if you care to know the reason why, it’s because
I
now own the Lancaster Mill. I sat with the solicitor, Mr. Romulus Bean, yesterday, and we made if official. I’m also in discussions with Mr. Bean to purchase a part ownership in the cotton mill in Northampton. I won’t
require
another penny from you. But I will be happy to discuss investment opportunities with you, for I’ll be forming my own investment group. One of the group’s first priorities is helping Miles find the funding for his next expedition.”

His father took all of this in, as if to say, “You’re . . . jesting.”

Jonathan sighed. “Feel free to write to Mr. Bean to inquire, but I do have the deed—” He slipped it from his coat, a coat of horrors as far as his father was concerned, and slid it over to him. “—right here.”

His father gingerly dragged the document toward him and stared down at it.

He looked back up at Jonathan, his face entirely unreadable now.

Jonathan put his palm over it and slid it back into his possession. “I’ll just take that back now, shall I? And do you know why he sold it to me? As luck would have it, I saved him from some thugs in a street brawl. Right outside a gaming hell. Of course, I had funds, too, thanks to my prior investments, or Mr. Bean wouldn’t even have bothered to speak with me. I’ve been investing in silks and similar cargos for the past two years. As I told you.”