She drained her cup. “No. Papa. It’s over.”
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas stared outthe window of Fairside’s main office on the second floor of the building, his gaze roaming over the black ribbon that was the Thames at night. While the river appeared to be an abyss of darkness, some activity continued to stir among the piles of crates, bundles, and ropes, mostly sailors drifting from pub to ship, lanterns and torches lighting their paths. The office behind him, cloaked in shifting shadows cast by two small lanterns, smelled of tar and smoke, silent but for the scratching of Philip’s quill. The fire in the corner stove had almost died out, and the chill of the night had begun to seep in through the windows.
They waited for Robert to return from Campion’s hell, to report what the dockers and tradesmen were saying about the “drama on the docks,” as one of the papers had dubbed the current business conflict between Fairside and Trident. Bentley’s main warehouse had only three clients remaining—he was losing ground and a great deal of money. The news of the day had been Bentley’s firing of most of his warehouse workers in a blind rage in which he had threatened violence on Fairside, its owners, and its assets.
Philip and Thomas had spent the afternoon hiring many of those workers for their own warehouses and shipping facilities. They had also hired three shifts of guards who would start work the next morning.
No one thought Roger Bentley made threats just to blow off steam.
Thomas hunched his shoulders within his greatcoat, twisting his cane in his hands.
“You do not have to stay,” Philip murmured from his desk. “I can tell you at breakfast what Robert said, since he’ll probably head back to the hell, then sleep half the day. The carriage is due to pick me up at nine. Cook even promised me a late supper. I’m sure she can scrounge something up for you. Take Max and head home.”
Maximilian, Thomas’s stallion, was tied in a side shed of the building, carefully out of the weather.
“I doubt I could sleep.”
The scratching stopped and the desk chair squeaked. After a few moments of silence, Philip said, “It is their move now, Thomas. Whatever the misunderstanding the two of you had last night, you have now put your intentions in writing. There is no way to mistake that. But it’s up to them to accept you.”
“It just got so out of hand so quickly. I did not mean to—”
“You became enchanted with her, what she was doing. You wanted to help her.”
“Yes.”
“Even though she did not need your help.”
Thomas turned to face his father. “You think this was all a mistake.”
Philip stood, went to the corner stove and stirred the embers, adding a tumble of coal from a nearby shuttle. Small flames flared and some of the rocks glowed red. He closed the door, replaced the poker, and held out his hands to the growing warmth. He spoke without facing Thomas. “No. Not entirely. Your motives were somewhat malformed, growing out of an emotion you felt for this woman, one I suspect you have never felt as deeply before. So you had no experience in knowing how to direct it.”
He turned, letting the stove warm his back. “You did not love Mrs. Carterton, did you? I know you were rather devoted to her.”
Thomas considered the question, musing over the jumble of emotions he had felt since the affair ended. “I’m not sure. It was... comfortable.”
“That’s an answer in itself.”
“But I continue to dream about her. Think about her.”
Philip shook his head. “Michael still thinks about rum. Dreams about it.”
“You think it’s a habit?”
“Or just comfort, as you said. She gave you something you needed and you got used to it. Would you have gone into battle for her? You certainly did not put up too much of an argument when I ended it for you.”
Thomas shook his head. “I did not.”
“The impression I had was that my goals were more enticing, more challenging than her bed.”
Thomas’s smile was wry. “Whether you believe it or not, I think I was ready to make these changes.”
His father gave a single nod. “You have done well. I have been impressed with the way you’ve grasped some of the business aspects of the estate. I think it challenges you, which you needed. The lifestyle you led can become tiresome.”
“Says the man who married before he turned twenty.”
“Which makes me damned experienced with knowing a woman can knock you so off-kilter your brain ceases to function.”
