Page 44 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Gideon let him go with a muttered curse.

“You are too, too easy, Deon,” Damian said with a sigh, his long fingers investigating the damage Gideon had wrought upon his perfect bloody neckcloth. Gideon wished he’d throttled him with it.

Gideon said nothing, just stalked towards the back of the cheese shop to the door that led up to his rooms. “Sweet dreams,” Damian called to his retreating back.

“Go to hell,” Gideon muttered, gritting his teeth as he retreated before he did his closest kin a serious injury.

Chapter 11

The Lure of the Sea

The Grand Hotel Building Site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 1st August 1816

For the next two weeks, Gideon kept his head down and out of Hetty’s way. He glimpsed her twice. Once, out riding with her sister, and once in the town, again her and her sister, on their way to The Mermaid for ices, he suspected. On both occasions they had nodded politely to each other, courteous, but no more. Weren’t they supposed to be friends now?

He had wondered half a dozen times since if he’d have done better to stop and speak to her or even gone to call upon her at the Hall. Because now…now it was awkward. There was an undercurrent, a buzz of some strange tension thrumming between them which was hard to ignore. He wondered if it was only him who felt it, but then he remembered the way she had thrown her arms about his neck and held on tight as he had pulled her in for a kiss.

“Concentrate, you bloody halfwit,” he cursed, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the drawings he was adjusting.

A heavy knock pounded on the door of the site hut, and Gideon looked up with a start.

“Come in.”

Mr Ludlow strode in, his ruddy face flushed with anger.

“Ludlow? What is it?” Gideon asked in alarm, pushing to his feet and rounding the desk.

“Are you taking the piss? I know the quantity of scaffolding planks was much higher than you’d hoped for, but providing green wood? Do you want us all to break our bloody necks?”

“Green wood?” Gideon repeated, wondering what the hell the man was on about. “Of course I didn’t buy green wood.”

Frowning, he went to his desk, searching through his neatly arranged lists for the last load of materials he’d ordered. He picked up the copy of the order he’d made and showed it to Mr Ludlow.

“Seasoned oak for the upper floors, as you demanded. I’d have preferred seasoned pine, but I took your point about the men’s safety seriously,” he said, showing the order to Ludlow, who snatched it from him.

The man let out a breath and shook his head, thrusting the paper back at Gideon. “It may well be what you ordered, Mr Bramwell, but it ain’t what got delivered. I weren’t here, or I’d have refused it. But Ridley told my men to stop bellyaching and get on with their work.”

“Show me,” Gideon demanded, following Ludlow out of the hut, their boots crunching on the gravel they’d laid to keep the mud to a minimum.

The weight of responsibility settled heavier on Gideon’s shoulders. Ridley ought to have known better than to have accepted unseasoned wood for scaffolding. He was an accountant, true, not a builder, but he knew what had been ordered. Gideon had been very specific, and if the items had not matched the order, the least the man could have done was check with him.

They crossed the yard towards the east wing where the next storey of scaffolding was going up. The air was thick with dust, and the tang of fresh cut timber.

Ludlow pointed up at the timber used to make a new section of scaffolding. “There, look at that, green as bloody grass, it is. You can see the sap bleeding out.”

Gideon glanced up, and then went to the large stack of wood, neatly piled, ready for use, and put his hand on the uppermost plank. It was damp, the grain loose and uneven. He turned his head, surveying the supplier’s mark, which was not the one he’d specified. A surge of anger tensed his muscles, and he gritted his jaw.

“I told Mr Ridley it weren’t safe,” said one of the younger men, a sturdy fellow by the name of Toby. He took his cap off respectfully as Gideon turned to face him. “He said I was being fussy, but my Da works with wood and—”

“Ah, Toby. You’re such a bleedin’ milksop, always running telling tales to Mr Bramwell.”

“Shut your mouth, Mark!” Toby shot back furiously, though Gideon had to acknowledge that Mark’s claim was not entirely without foundation. Toby was a fusspot—usually.

Gideon held up his hand, daring anyone else to cause trouble, and they subsided, stuffing their hands in their pockets and glaring.

“Mind your step, Frank!” someone called up to the highest range of scaffolding. “We’re taking it down.”

Frank, a heavyset, tall man, looked down, his boots thudding on the boards as he carried on walking.