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“Now, guvnor, I’d knock out this back wall here, and I’d connect the two houses with a walkway, see?” Ford heard the workman say.
“What’s this?” Ford asked. “Who are you?”
“Who areyou?” asked the gaunt man disdainfully, turning to face him. “I own this bookshop.”
“Pardon me, you do not own this bookshop, I do.” Lady Beatrice stepped closer. “I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley. Your name, sir?”
“Richard Foxton, at your service, Lady Beatrice. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Ford stopped in his tracks. He’d only been eight when his mother had taken him to London with her. He recognized the hooked nose and the deep-set gray eyes, but his hair had gone snow white.
This was the villain from his youth. The big bad ogre in all his mother’s stories.
The man his mother had made him swear never to contact, never to claim a connection with, never even to name.
Richard Stamford Foxton.
His grandfather.
Chapter Seven
Ford caught a flicker of unease in Foxton’s hard gray eyes.
“The duke’s solicitor, Mr. Greenaway, informed me that the property was for sale, Lady Beatrice. The terms have been decided.”
Lady Beatrice regarded him with the icy, aristocratic stare Ford recognized from their first interaction in the library at Thornhill House. “Mr. Greenaway acted without my knowledge or consent.”
“Do you mean that you don’t wish to sell? How odd. As you can see, the shop has a leaky roof and hazardous flooring. The building is unstable and would require expensive renovations to make it habitable.”
“That’s only partially true, and you know it.” Ford puffed out his chest. “This building is structurally sound, and the repairs won’t be extensive or costly.”
Foxton glanced at him dismissively. “That’s your opinion, Mr....?”
“Wright. John Wright.” His middle name. He wasn’t going to announce himself to the man he’d promised his mother never to contact. He looked evenly into Foxton’s eyes, daring him to recognize his own grandson, to make the connection and acknowledge him, but Foxton’s face remained blank and hostile.
This was the cruel and ruthless man who had torn apart his own family to satisfy his pride.
Ford had made a discreet study of him. Foxton’s property empire was built on similarly heartless principles. No tenant had ever received leniency during lean times from his grandfather. No bricklayer down on his luck with a sick wife and child at home was ever given a loan to tide him over to the next payday.
Foxton lived for the god of profit alone. He didn’t care about the backs he broke or the lives he ruined in his quest for the almighty gold.
“You may have knowledge of structural integrity, Mr. Wright,” Foxton said. “But Mr. Brown here has been employed by my firm for ten years now, and he says the building’s in dangerous disrepair.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Brown walked toward them, nearly stumbling over a crate of books.
“Be careful of those books, Mr. Brown,” said Lady Beatrice.
“Apologies, milady,” mumbled Mr. Brown.
“I don’t want the books, of course, Lady Beatrice. I’ll pay to have them delivered to a warehouse of your choosing.” Foxton attempted to soften his voice, but the result was more grating than empathetic. “Aren’t you in the midst of preparing for the whirlwind of the social season? Surely you don’t wish to trouble yourself with these matters. Allow our solicitors to work out the details and then—”
“Do you presume to know the goals of young ladies?”
Uh-oh. Ford knew where this conversation was headed.
“Er.” Foxton’s bony fingers tightened around the gold knob of his walking stick. “I meant no offense. It pains me to speak so bluntly, but Mr. Greenaway did lead me to believe, in essence, didguarantee, that you were amenable to selling this property. For a handsome profit, of course.”
Ford delighted in bursting his grandfather’s soap bubble. “This property will soon house a clubhouse for bluestocking lady knitters.”
