“No.” Jonathan exhaled through his nose and sat forward, planting both forearms against the desk. “This company is mine now. I will not run to Father every time the markets struggle.”
“Everyone requires counsel from time to time—”
“No,” Jonathan replied, harsher now. “This company has thrived for decades and weathered plenty of rough seas, yet Father managed it all. I will see it through.”
Silence settled briefly between them. Adam’s expression shifted faintly, not quite disagreement, not quite sympathy either. And it was at that time that the clock upon the mantelpiece chose to chime the hour.
Adam’s eyes slid to the clock before drifting back to his brother. “If you intend to reach Regent’s Park in time for Miss Eden, you ought to leave soon.”
Jonathan frowned. “You say that as though I’m marching to my execution.”
“No, just marching toward disaster.”
“You are likely right,” said Jonathan. “I am meeting with a lady who prefers me to you, so clearly her faculties are diminished.”
Adam’s brows rose at that, but his brother waved it away.
“I will make a muck of it. Of that, I am certain,” muttered Jonathan.
“But it will be entertaining to watch,” replied Adam, offering up the sort of encouragement that one expected of a sibling.
Pushing himself out of his chair, Jonathan straightened his coat, and Adam watched him a moment before speaking again.
“You could leave matters as they are.”
Jonathan kept his attention upon his cuffs, for the simple task suddenly required far more concentration than it ought. He understood what Adam meant. What had begun as an ill-conceived attempt to secure an introduction now carriedforward under increasingly false pretenses, no matter how carefully Jonathan tried to frame it otherwise.
“It is only a walk,” he said at last. “Nothing more.”
The clock upon the mantelpiece ticked onward in the quiet, each passing second pressing the hour closer, and Jonathan became abruptly aware of how late it had grown.
“Well,” said Adam, the word carrying a faint weariness. “When this goes horribly wrong, I should like the satisfaction of reminding you that I warned you repeatedly. This isn’t like you.”
Ignoring that, Jonathan strode from his office and descended into the churning motion of the city. Horse hooves clattered against the stones. Vendors called from corners. Somewhere in the distance came the shrill whistle of a train pulling through the station yard. Omnibuses rattled past in noisy bursts, and cabs darted through openings with reckless confidence as pedestrians filled in the gaps. No matter where one stood, construction sounded in the distance, attesting to the fact that the city was forever growing.
And Jonathan’s thoughts marched along, keeping pace with the grim determination of his footsteps. The business would not fail. The certainty of it held fast beneath everything else, stubborn and immovable. Hatcher & Byrnes had been built over decades through extensive effort and careful expansion, and he would not watch it flounder now that it was fully under his stewardship.
A difficult season did not signify collapse. Markets shifted. Investments soured and recovered. Fortunes tightened and loosened again. He simply needed time. Yet time required confidence, and confidence required investors willing to wait for the tide to turn.
Pausing to allow a brewer’s dray to rumble past, Jonathan’s gaze drifted briefly down the long road that fed into Lombard Street. Even at this distance, it felt impossible to escape the pullof the financial heart of the city, where bankers and brokers argued over sums that saved and ruined lives in equal measure.
Which, unfortunately, drew his thoughts back to the so-called “Lord of Lombard Street” and his daughter, Miss Nora Eden.
By the time Jonathan reached the edge of the park, the city had softened. The steady roar of commerce faded beneath birdsong, carriage wheels muffled now against the broader roads whilst the first true warmth of spring lingered pleasantly beneath the pale afternoon sun. A wall of trees signaled the edge of the park, and there, waiting near the iron railings, stood the lady in question.
Whilst many were determined to drape themselves in increasingly elaborate trimmings with ever-expanding bustles, Miss Eden (whose father certainly could afford for her to chase such fashions) chose simplicity. The deep blue of her walking dress was striking in the brightness of the spring afternoon, the rich shade complementing the brown locks peeking out from beneath the brim of her hat. A reticule swung from her wrist, and Jonathan couldn’t help wondering if a novel were tucked inside.
Miss Eden didn’t possess the sort of features that demanded attention at the outset, but like the lady herself, they grew more compelling the longer one looked at them. The upturn of her nose gave her a somewhat austere appearance, but the effect was undone whenever amusement flickered through her dark eyes, and as the lady seemed perpetually amused by the world, she was never in trouble of looking dour.
And when she glanced up and spotted him approaching through the gate, Jonathan had the distinct impression Miss Eden found him exceedingly diverting.
Which was quite worrying.
The lady seemed to be possessed of all her faculties, but finding him amusing seemed a clear mark against her judgment.Jonathan Hatcher was a good many things and possessed a good many talents, but amusing was not one of them.
Chapter 11
Jonathan’s hand slipped to the timepiece tucked within his waistcoat pocket, drawing it free with a practiced motion as unease pricked at him. He had left the office with time to spare; even allowing for the crowded streets, he hadn’t dawdled. Yet Miss Eden stood there with a patient air, and for one dreadful moment Jonathan wondered whether he had lost a quarter hour without noticing.
