A Scandalous Arrangement Page 4

  “I see. I could send word to your hotel then.”

  “No, that will not be possible. I…”

  “A boarding house, perhaps? Where will you be staying overnight?”

  Victoria stood and picked up her bag. “I will return tomorrow, at nine.”

  “But, Miss Wynne, Mr. Luke may leave early. He often does, regardless of the lateness of his return. I do recommend a more formal arrangement, and I am certain…” Mrs. Jennings followed Victoria as she made her way along the hallway toward the front door. “May I summon a cab for you? Where are you staying?”

  “No, thank you. I will… I will…” Victoria paused, at a loss as to which direction she should even walk in once back on the pavement.

  Mrs. Jennings took the opportunity to step in front of her, obstructing her progress to the door. “You do not have a hotel reservation, do you, Miss Wynne?”

  Victoria did not answer. Poverty was far too new to her; she could come up with no words to describe her current situation.

  Mrs. Jennings was unperturbed. “In that case, I must insist you remain here. We have guest rooms; I will order one prepared for you. At the first opportunity I will advise Mr. Luke of your wish to speak with him. May I take your bag?”

  Victoria was speechless, and so relieved that she feared her gratitude might be verging on the pathetic. She allowed Mrs. Jennings to relieve her of her bag, then followed her back into the parlour.

  “Please be seated again, whilst I make the necessary arrangements. Would you like some more tea?”

  Victoria accepted the offer, and perched once more on the sofa she had so recently vacated. Mrs. Jennings bustled off, still in possession of Victoria’s bag. Ten minutes later a tea tray arrived, borne by the same cheery-faced maid who informed Victoria that her room was ready, and she would be shown there as soon as she finished her tea.

  Chapter Three

  Adam dismissed his valet, preferring to leave the donning of his tie until it was time to leave the house. The man took his leave, along with Adam’s jacket, which he would brush and press whilst his employer enjoyed his breakfast.

  Adam glanced at his watch. Five minutes after seven. He allowed himself a yawn. It had been almost two in the morning when he returned from his club, and he supposed he could have permitted himself an extra hour in bed this morning. He had no meetings before noon, but even so, it was his habit to be up and about before seven. Today was no exception. He picked up his daily newspaper from the hall table at the foot of the stairs, glancing at the headlines as he strolled across the polished floor to his dining room where the door stood ajar.

  He reached the threshold and stopped, stock still.

  What the fuck?

  Accustomed to living alone, the unexpected vision of female loveliness seated at his breakfast table brightened Adam’s morning immeasurably. Newspaper forgotten, he leaned on the doorjamb to watch as his mystery guest helped herself to his marmalade. She spread it on her toast, then took a dainty bite from the corner. She had miscalculated and a stray smear escaped onto the edge of her lip. The matter was set to rights with an elegant flick of a pink tongue, then the lady took a second bite.

  Adam’s groin tightened and his cock swelled. Christ, she was seductive, though he knew the lady’s allure was not deliberate. She was unaware of his presence, her sensual manners not intended to be provocative.

  As he continued to observe unnoticed, she set her toast down and picked up her teacup. She took a sip, then replaced it in the saucer with a delicate clink before returning to her toast and marmalade. The lady’s attention was absorbed in a document spread out beside her plate, which she perused as she ate. She appeared deep in thought, whereas Adam could only claim to be deep in lust. His erection solidified within the confines of his tailored trousers, threatening to seriously embarrass him before much longer. There was no help for it; he had to end this free show.

  “Good morning.” He uttered the words from his position in the doorway, only after strategically repositioning his copy of the Illustrated London News.

  Startled, the lady whirled in the direction of his voice, her toast halfway to those luscious lips. She caught her teacup with her hand and slopped a good portion of the beverage into her saucer. Her eyes were a brilliant, deep blue, he noted, before they darkened in her shock at being discovered here. Her dark hair was neatly secured in a simple knot at the nape of her slender neck. His fingers itched to loosen it.

  She rose to her feet, dropping her napkin onto the floor. “I, I…”

  Adam strolled into the room, his deliberately casual gait somewhat marred by his rampant erection. He was reasonably confident he’d gotten away with it as he lowered himself into the chair at the head of the table. His guest hovered uncertainly beside the chair she had occupied, her pretty mouth working though no sound emerged. He decided to put her out of her misery.

  “Please, be seated. I did not intend to disturb you.” Liar!

  “I, I… are you Mr. Luke? Mr. Adam Luke?”

  Her tone was breathless. He noted she did not resume her seat. “I am, and at your service. You have the advantage over me, Miss…?”

  She sat down again, though her hands were folded in her lap, her spine ramrod stiff. She glared at him, and he found he did not entirely care for her hostile expression. It was, after all, his marmalade.

  “Miss…?” he prompted.

  “Wynne. Victoria Wynne. From Hebden Bridge, in Yorkshire.”

  “Ah.” The pieces dropped into place, some of them at least. He now knew who she was, and a less brotherly individual he had yet to meet. But he remained at a loss as to what had caused Edward Wynne’s sister to be present at his breakfast table. Not that he was complaining exactly. “It is most pleasant to meet you, Miss Wynne. Would you care for more tea?”

  His polite response may have prompted a resurgence of Miss Wynne’s manners. She lowered her gaze and shook her head.

  “Thank you, but I am quite finished. I will leave you to your breakfast, Mr. Luke.” She made to rise again.

  “Please remain, Miss Wynne. I rarely have company at this time in the morning, certainly not female company. And when I do, it is usually after my guest has shared my bed. I am quite certain I would have noticed you across my pillows.” He had not intended to make those final remarks; somehow they dripped from his mouth unbidden.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” Her features showed every indication of outrage, her colour rising from a pretty pink to an even more attractive crimson.

  Adam ignored her reaction, though he supposed she was entitled to feel aggrieved. His remarks were somewhat personal, for a first encounter at least. This did not prevent him from continuing in a similar vein however. “You are most welcome, of course, whether at my table or in my bed. But I will confess to a certain puzzlement at discovering you here, Miss Wynne. Might you enlighten me, do you think?”

  “How dare you speak to me in that way? What would your wife make of your, your…” She abandoned her remonstrations, lapsing into a bristling silence.

  “I doubt my wife will find much to say on the matter. I repeat, Miss Wynne, why are you here?”

  “Sir, you are most rude. And quite improper.”

  “I daresay, and I am happy to return to the subject of my inappropriate behaviour at a later stage if you insist. For now though I prefer to remain with the matter in hand, namely your unexpected presence here in my dining room.” He was not being entirely fair, he knew that. He had, after all, started it.

  “May I explain, Mr. Luke?” Mrs. Jennings’ voice broke into the awkward silence. The housekeeper bustled into the room to lay a plate of lightly fried bacon on the sideboard, then she returned to station herself beside the dining table. “Miss Wynne arrived yesterday afternoon seeking a meeting with you. She had no appointment, but was most keen to wait. She did so until we finally had no alternative but to assume you would not be returning home until the late evening. As Miss Wynne
had no hotel accommodation arranged, I invited her to stay here. I was concerned for her safety, a young lady alone in London at night. Anything could happen.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Jennings. You did absolutely the right thing. I trust you spent a comfortable night, Miss Wynne.”

  She glanced at him again, her expression still reminiscent of a deer caught in a trap. “What? Yes, yes, I did. Thank you. And thank you, Mrs. Jennings, you have been most kind.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. Would you like a bit more toast? Some jam, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Adam decided to assert control. “Please replenish the plates, Mrs. Jennings. And we’d like a fresh pot of tea too, I think.” He reached for a napkin and shook it open. “Might we tempt you to a little bacon, Miss Wynne?”

  At her silent head shake, he rose and strolled over to the sideboard, grateful that the more obvious signs of his arousal had subsided somewhat. He feared this state of affairs would not last long. Adam helped himself to eggs and bacon, then returned to his seat. He dropped the napkin across his lap, just in case.

  “Perhaps you might explain to me how you found yourself without hotel accommodation yesterday, Miss Wynne. Even without a reservation there are ample quality establishments in the near vicinity with vacancies. You could have walked into any one of them and secured perfectly acceptable lodgings.”

  “That was not possible, I am afraid.”

  His guest had resumed her prim pose. He found he was determined to shake her out of it, though he had no idea why the notion held such appeal. Further, he found her response evasive.

  “Why was it not possible?”

  “Please, I am not here to discuss my personal circumstances. Could we—?”

  Ah, personal circumstances. Now he was getting somewhere. “You lacked the funds to pay for a hotel.” It was a statement, not a question.

  She answered with silence. He took that as affirmation that he was correct. He would come back to this matter, once he had disturbed her equilibrium again. She appeared far too serene and distant for his liking.

  “You were saying, Miss Wynne? About my wife, and sharing my bed?”

  His ploy worked. Miss Wynne was suitably outraged once more. “I was not! I am here to speak to you on a most urgent matter of business. Honest, decent business.”

  He curled his lip in a cool smile. “Naturally. I always seek to be honest and decent in matters of business. Please continue, Miss Wynne.”

  “I, if you’d prefer to finish your breakfast first, I am happy to wait in your parlour.”

  “You will do no such thing, Miss Wynne. I like to think I am a reasonably competent man, and I am confident my skills will stretch to talking, listening, and eating at the same time. So, what is it you wish to discuss with me?” He was fully aware of the nature of her grievance, and from that could deduce the wider circumstances that had given rise to her lack of accommodation, but saw no harm in hearing her state it for herself.

  She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It concerns a recent acquisition of yours. Wynne’s Weaving Mill, in Hebden Bridge. That’s in Yorkshire,” she added helpfully.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “So, how may I be of assistance to you?”

  “There has been a dreadful misunderstanding. I gather my brother wagered the mill on a game of cards. And he lost.”

  “You are referring to Edward Wynne. He did indeed wager the property, then he lost it. To me.” Adam poured himself a cup of tea, draining the pot.

  “The mill was not his to bet with. He had no right.”

  “Are you seeking to convince me that your brother was not the owner of the property?”

  “He had not been there for almost ten years. He takes no interest, none at all.”

  Ah, so that did at least explain the young wastrel’s apparent ignorance as to the value of his asset. Adam inclined his head. “I see. However, this is not a matter of geography, but one of law. Regardless of Mr. Wynne’s whereabouts over the last several years, are you telling me he was not the legal owner of the property?”

  “I manage Wynne’s. It is mine.”

  Adam laid his teacup aside and leaned both elbows on the table. He caught his guest’s azure gaze and held it. “Miss Wynne, let us cease this game now. Wynne’s mill and associated properties were wholly owned by Edward Wynne. He wagered them, and he lost. Accordingly, the following morning he signed the legal documents transferring the assets to me. This mill, business, houses, all are now mine, Miss Wynne. There is not a court in the land that will say otherwise. I believe my lawyer has been in recent correspondence with you to affirm this.”

  He watched her features with care as they displayed her inner turmoil. He detected anger, certainly, and frustration. Perhaps a trace of desperation too. But the primary emotions he saw there were disappointment and hopelessness. Despondency was writ plain across her face as she studied her hands in her lap.

  Adam’s voice gentled as he spoke to her next. “Do you dispute this, Miss Wynne?”

  She raised her eyes to meet his again, and he was sure he detected tears there. Her lip quivered, just slightly, but enough. She caught it in her teeth and her tension was almost palpable. Adam waited.

  “No, Mr. Luke, I do not dispute the facts. It is unjust though, you must see that.”

  “I appreciate the awkward position your brother’s actions have reduced you to, Miss Wynne. But this not a matter of justice either, merely it is one of law.”

  “He owed you money, he told me that. Would you mind if I were to ask you how much his debt was, Mr. Luke?”

  “Your brother owed me a little over two thousand pounds.”

  “But—that is only a fraction of the value of my mill.”

  “My mill, Miss Wynne.”

  She ignored his correction. “You have profited greatly from my brother’s stupidity. I could have settled that debt, if he had applied to me for the funds.”

  “Applied to you? But the funds were his, were they not?”

  “As I already explained, he took no interest. He had no idea…” She hesitated, then buried her face in her hands. The shake of her shoulders told him she was sobbing.

  Mrs. Jennings chose that moment to return with the new pot of tea. His housekeeper lifted an enquiring brow at him, and he shook his head quickly. She accepted his silent instruction and slipped from the room.

  Uncertain that he could find any words of comfort to offer, Adam waited for Miss Wynne to recover her composure. To the lady’s credit, her fit of tears did not last long. When he discerned by her frantic patting down of her pockets and poking up her sleeves that she may be seeking a handkerchief, Adam produced his own and passed it to her. Miss Wynne accepted the pristine linen, dabbed at her eyes and nose, then faced him again.

  “I want to buy it back.”

  Now it was Adam’s turn to be startled. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I wish to repurchase my property. I gather from your solicitor’s letter that you intend to sell it, so I have an alternative proposal to put to you.”

  “I see.” He did not see, not even slightly, but he would hear her out.

  “I run Wynne’s. I have done so for years, since my father died. I am a good mill owner, I can turn a decent profit.”

  Adam saw no merit in debating further the matter of ownership. He’d made his point and they both knew where they stood. As to his visitor’s business acumen, Horace Catchpole had been impressed by her management of Wynne’s business affairs so he was inclined to accept her self-assessment. One detail puzzled him though.

  “If you are such an astute businesswoman, how was it you found yourself here in the capital without the necessary means to even secure decent lodgings for yourself?”

  She tilted her chin at him, her expression one of dignity, albeit her pride was somewhat battered right now. “I have taken little from the mill over the years, preferring to reinvest
the profits. My personal funds outside of the business are limited, and since your solicitor made arrangements to freeze me out of the company bank accounts I am unable to access the money I have invested there. I was able to borrow enough from my bank to cover the cost of my train ticket, but no more.”

  He regarded her in silence for several seconds, considering this latest claim. He found he believed her. “I see. Please continue, Miss Wynne.”

  Her expression was intense as she leaned forward to present her case. “I will run Wynne’s for you, as your manager, in exchange for a reasonable salary and a share in the profits. Over time I anticipate l will accumulate sufficient funds of my own to purchase the business back. We will be partners, Mr. Luke, until I have the necessary finance to be in a position to buy you out entirely.”

  “Are you aware of the actual value of Wynne’s mill?” He knew she was. She would know to the last penny.

  “Between fifteen and sixteen thousand pounds, Mr. Luke, depending on how much stock I am holding at the time of valuation. Once I own half of the business, I can use my holding as surety for a loan, and complete the purchase from you. I expect to be in that position within twelve years, though I could hope for nearer ten if some markets I have been exploring prove as lucrative as I suspect they may.” She paused again, then, “It is a good offer, Mr. Luke.”

  Adam was careful not to commit himself, though he privately agreed. He would not find a better manager, and at least this way Miss Wynne would have a stake in the future profits so would share his interest in maximising the returns. He would benefit from a reasonable income from his ownership and could look forward to a lump sum in due course. However, the mill was not the only part of the property at stake.

  “I gather your home is also involved in this transaction.”

  She nodded. “It is, but I fear I cannot do anything about that. In my—our—present circumstances we cannot afford to maintain the house in any case. I will make arrangements for my family to relocate, but I would appreciate more time in which to secure alternative accommodation for us. The end of this month is just days away. Could you agree to an extension, Mr. Luke?”