The Affectionate Adversary (18 page)

In such an event, Charles would settle his debts, secure contentment for his aging father, bring worthy bills and legal measures before the House of Commons, and—at long last—found the trade upon which he might make his fortune. With his wealth and reputation secure, perhaps then he would seek to complete the only emptiness remaining in his life.

Sarah would be living in China or India by that time, and so many years would have elapsed that he surely must have forgotten her altogether. Another woman would touch his heart and please his eye. He would satisfy her requirements in a husband. They would marry and begin a family. And all would be well.

Taking comfort in the vision of his happy life, Charles could not have been more surprised to find Henry Carlyle, Lord Delacroix, awaiting him outside the gates of Lincoln’s Inn that very afternoon. Wearing an expensive wool suit, a glossy beaver-skin top hat, and a pair of shiny black leather boots, the man stood beside his carriage. The vehicle boasted gold fittings and glass windows, was attended by a pair of liveried footmen, and was pulled by a team of pure white geldings. It completed an image that caused men to gawk and brought gasps of admiration from women passing on their way to market. For a gentleman Charles knew to be living on little more than the glory of his title and the kindness of his uncle’s widow, Delacroix certainly took great pains to look important.

“How do you do, Lord Delacroix?” Charles addressed him, bowing deeply.

Delacroix responded in kind. “I am well, Mr. Locke. And you?”

“Most content, sir. By your discovering me at Lincoln’s Inn, I must assume you visited my father this morning.”

“Indeed, and I found him in high spirits. He is most pleased with your improving health and your decision to pursue a career in lawmaking. And when he learned the reason for my call, his delight increased all the more. I wish to invite you to join our party at Bamberfield, my country house near Reading. It is not far, and you are welcome to accompany us by coach. One of our number is most particularly insistent upon your presence in our number.”

Charles’s hand tightened on the books he carried. “I cannot think who you mean.”

“Miss Prudence Watson is determined to ride out with you once we are come into the country, for she informs us that you enjoy nothing better than a fine horse and a pleasant day.”

“Miss Watson?” Charles pictured the lively young lady with her sumptuous curves and bright smile. He frowned. “I fear she exaggerates my enthusiasm for the sport. Do give her my thanks for the invitation, and inform her that were I otherwise unoccupied I might accept it. As it is, I am obliged to attend lectures at the Inns all this week and the next.”

“Then you must join us for the weekend.” Lord Delacroix held up a hand. “Do not protest, Locke, for your objections are all in vain. Your father already informed me that you have no previous obligations.”

“Other than to study.” Charles gestured at his books. “My time will be much occupied in reading, sir. I assure you of my gratitude, but I absolutely cannot leave London even for a day.”

Delacroix pondered a moment. “Sir, may I be so bold as to ask that we might speak together in private? Come, I see a teahouse just at the corner. Let us walk there together and confer on this matter.”

Though he would have liked to protest, Charles could see no polite way to decline further discussion. But if Delacroix believed that he could say or do anything to persuade Charles to spend an entire weekend in Sarah’s company, he was sadly mistaken. Sarah’s lovely serenity, her pure heart, her genuine speech, and her tender care of all those she encountered had so endeared her to him that he could not imagine finding any woman to take her place in his affections. To be in the same room with her and bear the knowledge that she would never be his was unthinkable.

As they approached the teahouse, Charles felt he could only be perfectly honest with Delacroix. “Lest you suppose you can alter my opinion, sir,” he stated, “I assure you that I will never accept your kind invitation. I cannot be comfortable in any situation in which Lady Delacroix is present. Nor can I imagine that she has approved my participation in your outing to Bamberfield. You must understand that our acquaintance is of a most peculiar nature. From our first meeting, an unexpected intimacy was forced upon us—an intimacy from which it is now necessary, yet impossible, to retreat.”

“Intimacy?” Delacroix scowled at the term. “What can you mean by this?”

“Sir, the lady was my nurse, my maidservant, my caretaker. She bathed my wounds, combed my hair, sang to me, listened to my fevered ravings, and soothed my angry spirit. She heard my confessions. She witnessed my rage. She bore my sorrows. In every way she did for me what I could not do for myself. Not for me only, I assure you, for she was available to all the injured who had been rescued from the
Tintagel
. And yet … between us there grew some special affection. We became more than acquaintances. More than mere associates. We were companions, you see. Friends.”

“You came to love her, I understand,” Delacroix said, holding out his arm to permit Charles to enter the teahouse first. “She informed her sisters that you proposed marriage.”

Charles clenched his jaw as he removed his hat and stepped into the dimly lit room. If the proposal was indeed known by Sarah’s sisters, everyone in London must now be aware of it. People would think him a fool—as he had been—to expect marriage to a woman of whom he knew so little. Yet how could anyone understand those precious days he and Sarah had spent together on the ship? Such warm companionship was rarely experienced even between a husband and wife. Bereft of it, he could hardly endure its absence. But Sarah had made her decision clear, and he knew her well enough to believe that nothing could change it.

The two men found a round table near the back of the room, where gentlemen sat about smoking pipes, sipping tea, and discussing everything from profitable commerce to the latest political scandal. Serving maids in white mobcaps and aprons bustled to and fro, pouring hot tea into cups for those who preferred it so, or into saucers for those from the old school. Much slurping and laughing and murmuring filled the chamber, and Charles welcomed the scent of sweet tea that permeated the walls and drifted around the thick, black beams overhead. The only light came from small, deep-set windows with diamond-paned glass and oil lamps that had stained the ceiling a dark, sooty brown. The tearoom was the ideal place for philosophizing, hatching schemes, and plotting villainy.

“I did propose marriage,” Charles admitted, seating himself across from Delacroix. “I was summarily rejected, and that was the end of it. I care deeply for the woman I knew as Sarah Carlyle, but I fully comprehend that I can have no enduring friendship with Lady Delacroix. I am most sincere in assuring you that my presence at your country house would be difficult for both of us. Uncomfortable. Even reprehensible.”

“But think what you say, sir.” Delacroix leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Your unique and intimate friendship is a great asset. Though she is indifferent toward you in the matter of marriage, yet you do have influence over her. Before your visit to Trenton House, she was determined to return to Asia and distribute her fortune willy-nilly. No sooner had you departed Trenton House than she informed us all that she meant to stay in England until next summer.”

Charles absorbed this news as a maid poured tea for himself and Delacroix. Lumps of sugar in a bowl and fresh hot milk in a creamer stood ready to be added. As he stirred, Charles pondered Delacroix’s words. Sarah must have been swayed by their discussion to accept that her sisters truly loved her and would miss her companionship. She saw that she had no need to rush away. Perhaps she even believed she might find charities in England that would satisfy her requirements. But this did not indicate any special affection for Charles himself, nor did it lead him to believe that either of them could be comfortable together for an entire weekend.

“I am pleased to have been of some service with my recent visit,” he told Delacroix. “I apologized to Lady Delacroix and was forgiven. Though I found it challenging to present arguments for her staying in England, you tell me she has accepted my reasoning. Good. Yet you asked one thing of me that can never be accomplished. I assure you, sir, that she will never be moved from her decision to distribute her fortune to the needy.”

“Perhaps not now. But with the passage of time … and a change in circumstance … she may be persuaded.”

“Speak plainly, Delacroix. I am not accustomed to intrigues.”

The gentleman leaned back in his chair, turned his cup one way and then the other, and finally focused on Charles. “You are forthright, are you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent. Then I shall be frank also.”

  
Nine
  

Charles studied the dark clumps of damp tea leaves at the bottom of his white cup. Upon these fragments plucked from a green bush, heated, fermented, dried, packed in chests, and shipped ten thousand miles across the ocean, he had meant to make his fortune. All his hope had been built upon so small a thing. Tea had become essential in England, and the demand was growing. Ladies drank it in drawing rooms; children in their nurseries; maids and footmen below stairs; and men in their clubs, their libraries, and their tearooms.

In every kitchen of the realm, teakettles whistled upon stoves. Teapots brewed the savory beverage while sandwiches, scones, and tarts were piled on plates to be served with it. The tea industry kept sailors and shipbuilders employed, potters and silversmiths busy, lace makers tatting away, and sugarcane plantations thriving.

Until recently, all this activity had been generated by the great machine of trade known as the East India Company. But now—only now—did common men have the opportunity to profit from the tiny brown leaves.

“Would you like more tea, sir?” a maid asked, holding a strainer over Charles’s cup.

“I would indeed,” he said, thinking how very literally he had meant it not so long ago. Tea, tea, and more tea. It was all he had wanted. All he had dreamed of.

As the maid poured Charles’s cup full of rich, amber-colored liquid, Delacroix began to speak. “An acquaintance of mine was in attendance at Marston House when you outlined your plan to establish an independent tea-import company. At my gentlemen’s club the following day, he related your idea with much enthusiasm. Among our party at the club was a man with whom you have a close friendship—Alexander Chouteau, son of the duke of Marston. Sir Alexander spoke highly of you, Locke, and he insisted you would make good on any endeavor to which you put your mind.”

“I am honored to hear it,” Charles said. “I should certainly say the same of him.”

Delacroix smiled. “Sir Alexander and I are of a mind to invest in your tea company, Mr. Locke. What do you say to that?”

The baron’s words sent a jolt of surprise down Charles’s spine. He had gone to the reception with the aim of finding investors, but he had considered the effort a failure. Was it possible he had succeeded after all? Pausing a moment before answering, he evaluated the proposal in light of all he knew about both men.

“I am honored at your interest, of course,” he told Delacroix at last, “but there is not to be a tea company. As you must have heard, the gold intended to capitalize it was stolen when my ship fell prey to pirates in the Indian Ocean. To establish an enterprise such as the one I envision must require a substantial investment from its founders. And, sir, if I may be so bold, I confess that your financial situation is well-known to me.”

“You have heard aright. Save my two properties and their contents, I am without means. Sir Alexander, of course, is a wealthy man and will have more when he inherits. But if I am able to secure a sum equal to his proposed investment, we are prepared to unite in underwriting your company.”