Page 47 of Sapphire

She had to admit, at least to herself, that a part of her had enjoyed his kiss that night in the tavern when he cornered her on the stairs. As on the night in the billiards room, he had frightened her, angered her, but he’d also…She didn’t know the right word for how he had made her feel, not just in the pit of her stomach, but deep inside.

Her breath caught in her throat and she turned her back to Angelique, covering her discomfort by making an event of returning the pouch to its place in the trunk. She didn’t want to talk about this with Angelique, not with anyone. Blake Thixton was the enemy. He was the one person who could give her what she needed and he would not even listen to her.

Maybe Angelique was right. Maybe she had to consider her options. Even if Mr. Stowe did find proof of her legal descent, it could take weeks, years even. The utterly dislikable Mr. Thixton would return to America with his new wife—and where would that leave Sapphire?

She hadn’t yet accepted anyone’s invitation to escort her to the ball on Saturday. Perhaps she should agree to Lord Thomas’s and seriously consider his marriage proposal. He was wealthy, his family was well-respected, he was a good man who would make a good husband and provider. Blake Thixton thought Sapphire was nothing but a penniless fortune seeker, a liar, a whore and a woman without a family name. If she married Thomas and became Lady Thomas, he’d certainly reconsider his assumptions, wouldn’t he?

“Lord Wessex, what you’re asking is unfeasible. The ship can’t possibly be ready to sail for another week. We’re still loading cargo and we’ve a shipment from China to transfer that isn’t even due in until tomorrow.”

Blake paced the tiny, sparse room above a warehouse on the London docks, only half listening to the shipping agent, Mr. Klaus, whom he’d been dealing with for weeks. Out a filthy, smoke-streaked window, Blake could see the Thames below and across the street. Along the dock beside the ship, men loaded the hold full of merchandise, new gowns of the latest Parisian fashion, coffee beans from the Caribbean and silks from the Middle East, in preparation for the voyage back to Boston.

He didn’t exclusively ship merchandise meant for wealthy Bostonians, of course; he was too good a businessman to count too heavily on one market. He imported sugar, molasses, bananas, tea, gypsum, chalk, sulfur, guano, soda, iron, wool, hemp, liquor, fur and flax among other goods. And on the return voyage, he would export fine New England timber, fabrics and whale oil, if he was lucky.

“Surely you’d be more comfortable on one of the new passenger steamer ships, my lord. They’re equipped with far better accommodations,” the tall, thin man with gray sideburns and a thick mustache implored.

“People.”

“My lord?”

Blake hooked his finger around his cigar and removed it from his mouth, beginning to pace in front of the desk again. As he walked the length of the room, he tried to remain patient. “Will there be people on board, Klaus?”

“Yes, of course, my lord. It’s a passenger ship, meant to transport people across the Atlantic. With the improvement in steam engines, my lord, we are able to—”

“I understand the advances we’re making in steam engines, Mr. Klaus,” Blake snapped. “It’s what I do for a living. What I’m saying is that I don’t wish to travel with any more people than necessary. The cabin you’ve had prepared is more than adequate. I just want a little peace!”

Mr. Klaus drew back, his slender fingers twitching on the desk. “Yes, my lord. As you wish, my lord.”

“I’ve seen the tide charts. We sail Sunday morning.”

“Lord Wessex, as I stated previously—” now his heavy mustache was twitching, as well “—I cannot possibly have the ship loaded properly and ready to sail by—”

“Sunday, six in the morning,” Blake reiterated, walking toward the door. “The ship leaves at six a.m., Mr. Klaus. Good day.”

Wisely, Mr. Klaus did not follow Blake to his carriage. Outside in the sunshine, Blake’s nostrils filled with the stench of the shipyard and he felt an odd twinge of nostalgia. He and his father, Josiah Thixton, had never gotten along, not when Blake was a child and certainly not when he was an adult. But one memory that Blake considered close to being a fond one was that of walking the Boston harbor docks with his father late in the afternoons. Ships loaded with America’s best timber and fibers bound for exotic lands would line up, ready to sail on the next tide. He would trot behind his father who was busy finalizing details, who spoke not only to the shippers, shipping agents and captain on the docks, but to the crewmen, as well. He had been a real bastard to his family, but to the men who worked for and with him, he was probably an entirely different man—the smiles, the inquiries as to how this new baby was doing or if that wife had recovered from an illness…His father’s feigned?

?or perhaps it was even real—interest in these men’s lives made them give him their very best, and thus improved his already booming business.

Too bad Josiah Thixton would return home to his mansion and beat his ten-year-old son with his fists.

The fine French cigar suddenly tasting sour in his mouth, Blake spat it out and ground the glowing end with the heel of his boot. Stepping up into the carriage, he called out an address to the driver and slammed the door shut.

Twenty minutes later, Blake was in Stowe’s lobby. “I don’t care if he’s presently occupied,” Blake told the clerk. “What I have to say will only take a moment.”

“A-an appointment c-c-can be m-made,” the clerk stuttered from behind his high desk.

“As much as I’m paying Mr. Stowe for as little I’m reaping, I think he can give me two minutes of his time.” Blake strode past the desk toward the hall that led to Stowe’s office.

The clerk leaped off his stool, hurried down the hall and somehow managed to put himself between Blake and the door to Stowe’s office. “M-my Lord Wessex, p-please, allow me to at l-least announce—”

Blake scowled at the distraught clerk. “He has a client in there?”

“Y-yes, well, n-no.”

“Which is it?” Blake demanded. “Either he has someone inside or he hasn’t.”

The door suddenly swung open, the knob resting in Mr. Stowe’s hand. “Lord Wessex,” he said sternly.

The clerk’s jaw worked up and down. “I…I…”

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