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He sighed and rubbed a hand over his skull.
He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was past thirty-one, his brown hair already starting the march toward gray at his temples. You’d think they would take the hint that he’d never be that boy again.
Granted, he was no longer grief-stricken and angry. But he could not seem to rid himself of the space in his chest that left his heart knocking hollowly around.
Aidan folded the letter from his brother and halfheartedly cursed the day he’d met Katie Tremont. Given the choice, he could not say with any honesty whether he’d take back the joy of having loved her just to have peace. He probably would. A few months of tortured happiness were not worth years spent grieving, not unless one had an ambition to take up poetry.
But, at the time . . . My God, at the time he would have sworn her kiss worth risking death itself. A smile tugged at his mouth at the melodramatic thought. He’d been only twenty-one, after all, and head-over-heels in love with her.
“Christ,” he murmured as he made himself pick up the second letter. This was good news. Rumors of a warehouse fire in Calais were confirmed, but his buildings had been spared. His business would profit by the wounding of others, and that bothered him not in the least. If it had been his buildings lying in ash, his competitors would snatch up his profits with clawed hands before the timbers had cooled.
Tragedy always benefited someone in the end. Hadn’t he taken his share of the benefit from Kate’s death?
“Penrose,” he said hoarsely, ignoring the ice that crawled along his neck, “you reviewed the letter from Augustine?”
“I did. Excellent news.”
“Indeed. Renegotiate the terms with Coxhill for the brandy. Supply will be limited for the quarter at least.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Penrose?”
The slim young man paused, midturn, before spinning back toward Aidan.
“Find out which trains are leaving for London tonight. But . . . don’t book our passage until I return.”
Penrose didn’t even blink at the odd change of plans. “Of course, Mr. York.”
Aidan had to return to the shop. He thought he’d successfully exorcised all his love for Katie, all his grief. It had been so long ago . . . an eternity.
But now the memories were back. Memories of her easy smile, her wide brown eyes, her soft hands tentatively touching the skin of his chest, his arms . . . everywhere. These images still shone clear in his mind though they now had a faintly stale feel—as if they were not real memories, but short vignettes he’d viewed once too often since her death.
He wanted them to fade again. If he didn’t walk into that shop, didn’t disprove this, she might follow him back to London and stay with him the rest of his life. Unacceptable. His life was just as he wanted it, and he intended for it to remain unchanged. He had a house, money, work to keep him occupied, and bedmates when he wanted them. He didn’t need a long-dead love hanging about and complicating things.
Aidan retrieved his hat, angling it low over his eyes as he stepped out into the late sun. He kept his gaze straight ahead and pondered a trip to Italy in the spring. His strength lay in France, but his trips to Italy were becoming more profitable. Though lately, he’d had a good run buying disabled ships like the one he’d purchased this morning. He had money to sink into these projects, after all. Too much money, as he didn’t seem to know what to do with it.
He could buy property, and had done. But what was he to do with more land or houses? It was only him, after all. Horses were tempting, but he felt like the worst sort of owner when he found himself with horses he’d never ridden and couldn’t even recall purchasing. He cared little for fashion and less for gold and jewels.
No, he didn’t need more money, but the triumph of making a profit lured him on. Each dollar made into ten felt like a victory over . . . something.
He turned a corner, and there it was, two blocks ahead. His feet wanted to slow, but he kept his pace steady. He wouldn’t hesitate before a damned coffee shop as if it were a threat. He’d march straight in and put an end to this farce.
But before he could close the distance, a man in a wine red coat stepped over the threshold of the shop and shut the door behind him.
Aidan stopped, leaned his shoulder against the brick wall of an apothecary, and waited for the chance to put a stop to this.
Chapter 2
Gulliver Wilson’s gaze slid over her shop, over the long oak counter, the smooth, dark wood of the floor. “You should be more careful,” he intoned in his stuffy drawl.
Kate looked down and studied the green wool of her sleeve, willing herself not to lose her temper. “As you say, Mr. Wilson.”
“This town is not so quaint as it seems.”
“So you’ve told me.” Her wry tone must have bounced off the man’s thick head. He only nodded soberly and stroked his chin, eyes still crawling with that assessing squint she’d come to recognize.
“There’s no reason to go about town by yourself, Mrs. Hamilton. I’m happy to escort you anywhere you have need to go.”
