The Affectionate Adversary (10 page)

“You must go and make of it what you can.” James Locke handed his son the card that had arrived in the morning post. “It is very likely you may encounter a gentleman who would be interested in investing in our tea company.”

Charles scanned the invitation to the formal reception and then set it aside. Since returning to London a fortnight before, he had done little but listen to his father’s schemes and plans. James had been devastated at the news of the pirate attack and the loss of his gold. Though relieved to find his son alive and in reasonable health, he could not seem to accept the truth: Locke & Son, Ltd., no longer existed.

The few men who had invested in the enterprise immediately demanded the return of their money. Plans to lease a warehouse until one could be built had to be scrapped. All hope of freedom from the mundane and servile existence that had been the Locke family’s lot for generations was gone.

Charles sighed. “Father, may I state with all due respect that you are too much fixed upon the past. We no longer have your gold. We are not proprietors of a tea company. That dream is at an end.”

“Nonsense!” James smoothed down the fringe of graying hair that remained at the back of his head. “We must think. Think carefully.”

“Sir, we have repeatedly considered all our options. Without financing, the situation is hopeless.”

“But that is the key!” The older man swung around, his blue eyes aglow. “We must secure investors once again. I have earned a respectable reputation in the city, and you are young and healthy—”

His jaw clamped shut as his gaze fell upon Charles, whose injured leg extended on a footrest at the end of the chintzupholstered chair he occupied. As on board ship, Charles had continued to endeavor to exercise the injured limb in an effort to return it to its former usefulness. His efforts were of little avail, for the limp remained. His arm was hardly better. The shattered elbow continued to cause Charles much pain, and the wound where a ball had passed through the muscle atop his shoulder refused to heal.

Such physical maladies might be enough to discourage any man, yet Charles knew his ill humor rose from another source. He could not stop thinking about Sarah Carlyle. After refusing his proposal of marriage, she had vanished belowdecks, and their paths had not crossed again.

Charles felt not the faintest hope of winning her hand—she had made it plain she did not even wish to see him again. Where she lived, he could not know, for there must be at least a hundred Mrs. Carlyles in the city of London. He could not call on her, thank her for helping so much in his recovery, wish her well—anything. Their brief friendship was at an end. He must accept this, yet he did no better than his father at acknowledging the truth.

How was it possible that Sarah had rejected him in such a way? Even now he could hardly believe she had been serious in demanding that he surrender his plan to establish a trade and provide for a family. And in exchange that he accept a life of poverty! Who on this earth would welcome penury and the suffering that must accompany it—hunger, disease, isolation, homelessness? What rational woman would not long for a secure future with a warm home, children, and a husband she loved?

But Sarah did not love Charles, and this was the cruelest memory of all. She had tended him, cared for him, done all in her power to restore him to health. They had talked together, laughed, shared their hopes and dreams. And yet she could not love him. Why? Did she mourn her dead husband? Was she repulsed by the injuries that had crippled him? He could not make it out. And even if he did understand every aspect of the matter, nothing could change the inevitable fact: she would not marry him.

Charles pushed himself from the chair, took up his cane, and walked across the room to the fireplace where his father stood. Laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder, he spoke in a low voice. “Father, you must accept the situation. I am not the man I was. The gold is gone. The enterprise is ended.” He waited a moment in silence, watching emotions pass like shadows over his father’s face. Anger. Sadness. Determination.

“I have been thinking a great deal of my mother,” Charles added gently. “She was wise, you know. We both respected her immensely, and we took her advice to heart. Consider what she would say to all this, Father. She was a true Christian in word and deed, very much like—” he shook his head—“like you and I ought to be. Mother would impart good counsel to us now, as she always did. She would say that honor ought to come before all else. She would urge me to seek honest employment—”

“Honest, yes. But would she have you work in a bank?”

“And why not? You were the duke of Marston’s steward, and Mother admired you for it. I inherited your talent with finance, Father. You have said yourself that my ability to balance ledgers and keep accounts is equal to your own. Is there any dishonor in my seeking employment with a bank? Or as a steward—”

“Never! You will not toil for some cabbage-headed aristocrat, as I did. You are better educated and more capable than I was. I shall not sit by and watch my only child, my dear son, spend the best years of his life as I wasted mine. How many thousands of pounds did that reprobate spend on gowns and jewels and slippers for his ridiculous wife? I labored day and night to balance the duke’s insatiable appetite for balls and dinners with the income he derived from those poor tenants who labored on land he never even bothered to visit! Did he care about his sheep? his mill? the small village that—?”

“Father, I know how you suffered under that man’s excesses.” Charles had heard such diatribes against the duke of Marston all his life. His father’s feelings were justified, of course, yet now was hardly the time to rant. “If you do not wish me to seek a position as a steward, I shall honor your request. But why not the bank? It is a respectable profession that will provide a satisfactory income. With the gold lost and only a small sum left in your account, you will need my financial support in the years to come, and I fully intend to give it. Think what Mother would say to this.”

“Your mother perished for lack of good medical care! And why? Because I was nothing better than a steward to a pompous, self-possessed cretin! I had insufficient funds to see that my wife received the best treatment during her illness. Do you suppose I wish for you to bear such a shameful burden? Unthinkable! No, Charles, I shall not hear of you taking a position at a bank or as a steward. Not until we have exhausted every other avenue.” He snatched up the invitation. “The duke of Marston’s son does you a great honor in asking you to attend his reception, for this is the high event of the social season. With his elder brother missing and presumed dead in America, Sir Alexander is likely to inherit his father’s title and estates. You ought to oblige him. No doubt he has heard of your misadventure at sea and longs to amuse himself and his friends with your tale of woe.”

“Father, I cannot tolerate such censure of Sir Alexander. He and I played together as boys, and I am certain our friendship stands as it was.”

“Then go to the soiree and make some good use of the man! He will have cronies who may be interested in our enterprise. They all have money enough to waste on balls and such frippery! Perhaps you can convince one of them to finance us.”

“Father, I deplore dancing, and I am no more fond of mingling with the aristocracy than you are. Do see reason here. If you object to my taking some common employment, then I must join a regiment. As an officer, I shall earn the respect of my peers and the income to satisfy our requirements.”

“The army? Would I have you marching off to war against the French or those rebellious Americans? Certainly not! As well you might pursue the pirates in an effort to reclaim our gold! You returned to me barely alive, crippled, and in pain. Should I now wave you off to some foreign battlefield and have you killed?”

“If you are so determined to make a fortune, then perhaps I ought to go after the pirates,” Charles retorted. “I could sail to the Malabar Coast and raid every pirate stronghold in search of your chest of gold. Would you be happy then, Father? Is that the only thing that could satisfy you?”

“Charles!”

“Is this tea enterprise more important than health and security, Father? Is it so essential that we rise above our humble roots? Perhaps we are both wrong in our thinking. I have heard it said that God would wish us to rid ourselves of all earthly treasures and practice charity.”

“Who told you such nonsense? Was it that woman on the ship? That … that silly creature—”

“Mrs. Carlyle, yes. And I cannot believe my mother would have disagreed. What is truly important in this life, Father? Should we become as rich as those repugnant aristocrats you so abhor? To what end? That we might host our own balls and purchase gowns and slippers enough to clothe a harem?”

“Upon my word, you are altered! Altered, indeed! Come here, my dear boy.” James Locke stretched out his arms and took his son into a rough embrace. “Oh, Charles, I do not mean to cause you such distress. You have suffered greatly, and I am sensible of your unhappy condition.”

Drawing away, Charles hobbled to the window and lifted the curtain aside to look onto the bustling London street. “I love her,” he murmured. “I love her dearly. With Sarah beside me, I might have accomplished all our aims. But she would not have me. If I am altered, Father, it is not enough. I am still the man I was, for I could not bow to her wishes. I could not become the man she wanted me to be. I refused her—and then she refused me. And now it is done.”

“Then turn your sorrow into joy again.” James joined his son at the window. “Go to the Marston event and speak to your friend. Tell Sir Alexander of your adventures and acquaint him with our loss. Perhaps he will recall his fondness for you and seek to assist you. Remind those gentlemen you meet of the end of the East India Company’s monopoly. Assure them of the abundant dividends an independent tea enterprise must earn. If you can find one investor—even one—willing to capitalize us, we shall be on our feet again. Locke & Son, Ltd., will become a reality.”

Letting out a deep breath, Charles faced his father. He took the invitation and scanned the information it contained. “I shall do as you ask,” he said. “But I assure you it gives me no pleasure.”

“How can you know such a thing? Perhaps you will meet an enchanting young lady!” James fairly skipped across the room to pen an acceptance to the reception. “There must be many such women eager to hear how you battled pirates. Such a tale! You must seek out the wealthiest of the lot and entertain her with your saga. You are too handsome not to win the heart of more than one woman.”

But Charles wanted only one woman. Sarah Carlyle held his heart, and he could not imagine how to take it back again.

The duke of Marston’s London house faced directly onto Cranleigh Crescent in Belgravia. As Charles descended from his carriage, he noted that every window was lit. Hundreds of candles must be burning within, for each room in the house would be occupied on such a grand occasion. This reception was of such renown that it must be attended by everyone who was anyone in the
ton
, and the gowns and jewels on display might put the regent himself to shame.

Arriving in droves, the young ladies and gentlemen greeted one another with laughter and happy cries—as if they had not seen each other at one ball or another nearly every evening of the year’s social season.

Setting his cane firmly on the walk, Charles stepped toward the grand staircase that rose to the massive front door of the duke’s house. Though he could never compete in lineage or wealth with the other guests, Charles knew he was as educated, respectable, and welcome as anyone. His acquaintance with Sir Alexander and his elder brother, Ruel Chouteau, the marquess of Blackthorne, had been of long duration. The three had attended school together as boys. They had been classmates at Cambridge. As adults, they had continued their association through letters and the occasional social call.

Charles had been dismayed to hear that while traveling in America, Lord Blackthorne reportedly had been killed by Indians. Scalped, it was said. He certainly hoped the rumor was false, for the marquess had been by far the more capable of the two brothers and certainly the best candidate to take on the responsibility of their father’s duchy. Yet it was Sir Alexander who had befriended the family steward’s son.

Sir Alexander had been little different from young Danny Martin, the ship’s boy who had hop-skipped so happily across the deck of the
Tintagel
as he did his errands. Thin and sunburned, with skinned knees and a mop of golden hair, the young Alexander had spent many hours with Charles—fishing, riding, or pretending to be knights of King Arthur’s famous Round Table. Charles reflected on the passing of his own boyhood and the sad end of the lad he had known aboard ship. Now Danny was gone, and Alexander had become a man—very likely the heir to the title and wealth of his father, Lord Marston. Charles was grown, as well, and he bore the heavy burden of his father’s wishes and his own hopes and dreams.