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“That would be the one.” Miss Penney took a step back, giving him space. She drew in a noisy breath and adjusted her left glove. “I always lament being a woman. It means I am usually left for last when it comes to learning matters of importance. It seems, perhaps just this once, I am not last.”

Rafe put himself in front of her. His forehead was prickling with cool sweat. “Tell me. Tell me everything.” He pressed the drawing room doors closed.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. Papa just had the contract drawn up this week. Surely you know your father owns a good number of shares in the canal, which is expected to reach completion in the months to come. And my family may not have liquid capital, Mr. Balfour, but we have more land than any one man should ever own.”

“In Cheshire.” He buried his face in his hands. “Oh, God. You live in bloody fucking Cheshire.”

An old dowager couldn’t have tittered any louder than Miss Penney. Still, the sound barely made it past the whooshing in Rafe’s ears.

“You truly are the most impertinent man I have ever—”

“That’s it, then?” He scraped his fingers down his face. His eyes weren’t working well anymore. He didn’t quite grasp time or depth or distance. “I’m correct?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re about, Mr. Balfour. I can only tell you that my father no longer wishes to farm corn, and is, at present, buying many head of sheep with the last of our funds. Your father will provide the necessary capital to turn that wool into usable material and ship it … well, to wherever one takes such things.”

Anywhere. It could be taken anywhere. A scheme fit for a man ravenous with greed. All that would be wanting was manufacturing. Wool—both the raw material and the finished woven product—could be shipped all over England, out on the waterways and beyond. The opportunity, the earnings, would be limitless. It was bloody genius, curse the old bastard down to his soul.

This was the source of his adamance. Sophie—God, she had suspected something, hadn’t she? The devil did have a reason. He hungered for his due, even if he must butcher his son’s life to get it.

“We must stop this.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. The room twisted ever so faintly in his vision, left-right, left-right.

“The deal has been struck. There is no stopping it. All that remains is for us to fulfill the other half of the bargain.”

Had the contract been signed? He must find out what had transpired between Thomas and Lord Penney. Perhaps they were meeting, right now, at Balfour’s. If that was the private business—

He wrenched open the door. Maybe there was still time. He could get there, shred whatever agreement lay between them. Speak reason or pummel his fists until someone heard it.

The claw of long fingernails dug into his forearm, making deep impressions even through the layers of clothing. “Mr. Balfour!” she hissed. “Did you even hear me?”

“I’ve got to go.” He tugged his arm free. “I’m sorry—you may see yourself out.”

He tore through the corridor, pushed off the newel post, descended the steps two at a time. Miss Penney kept pace with him, yammering insistently at his shoulder. “My father put the last of our coin into this scheme. Do you hear me? If you interfere with this, you’ll ruin us!”

There was the sound of a seam ripping open, and he looked down just in time to see her too-long hem tearing under the weight of her slipper. He thrust out the back of his arm, stiffening it to catch her fall.

They were on the final step. She clung to the banister, panting. The loathing in her gaze might’ve pierced holes in the fabric of his spirit, were he not made of sheer will just now.

He retracted his arm. Without another word, he took the final step, threw open the front door, and bolted.

twenty-three

It might have been bloody faster to send for Chenoweth. Certainly less taxing on Rafe’s lungs, and perhaps less humiliating—but no matter. He was in sight of Balfour’s now.

“Easy, mister!”

Rafe tucked his left shoulder to avoid knocking into a passing post-boy. A few strides later, a gentleman wearing a black Wellington hat wedged himself between Rafe and the flouncy-looking lady attached to his arm. Very well, he was scaring the good people of London. He needed ferocity for what he was about to face.

He turned down the familiar passage. The world functioned in prestissimo: His boot heels slamming into puddles of stagnant water. The driving hammer of his pulse. The indulgent restlessness of his fisted hands.

The back door of Balfour’s opened easily, and inside, quiet. The dark corridor smelled of old wood chips and the bitter saltiness of turmeric dye. The fifth floorboard creaked under his boot, just as it always did. It was eerie, and infuriating, too, that this godforsaken old building should be so unchanged. Rafe’s world was hanging on by a tether, and the haunting familiarity around every corner was a careless reminder: Everything is allowed to remain the same. Only you must change.

The low, animated rumble of his father’s voice reached him. He halted where he was. Nearly a mile of ceaseless motion, and his legs finally turned to cement.

“Oh, sir, it’s you.” The street sweeper stepped forward from the corridor’s shadows, and his shoulders sagged.

“Where is he?” Rafe’s voice was ragged; his question was stupid. A few steps would surely answer him just as easily—he was delaying. Like a coward.

“Mr. Balfour, sir?” The boy’s frame tightened again. “Oh, I wouldn’t. He’s been in the foulest mood since the post arrived an’ now—now that Lord Penney fellow ’as come—”