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He didn’t like bawdy houses himself. Manufactured passion had always left him cold. He preferred women who actually wanted to be in bed with him. But they were few and far between nowadays. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been with a woman. But then, hewasmarried to his work. His factory was an obsession for him. He rarely took a day off.
“I wouldn’t know, Baldwin,” he said, shaking his head. “You might have to go exploring on your own.”
The footman returned. He was frowning. “Mr Hartfield, it appears your carriage is missing.”
“What?” said Ambrose, thinking he had misheard the footman.
How could a carriage go missing?
He turned to the man sitting next to him. “I must go and see what’s going on, Baldwin. Enjoy your time in London.”
Baldwin nodded. Ambrose followed the footman out to the mews beside the hotel, where the carriages belonging to the hotel guests were lodged. Porter, his carriage driver, was standing there looking bewildered.
“What the deuce is going on, Porter?” barked Ambrose.
The driver shook his head incredulously. “It was here an hour ago, sir,” he said, scratching his head. “And now it’s just…gone!”
Ambrose looked around. There were three carriages in the mews. None of them were his.
Who would have stolen my carriage?
He hadn’t used the carriage since yesterday. He’d walked to his cancelled appointment with Dana Industries, as it had been only three blocks away. He had thought the fresh air might do him good, and he liked to stretch his legs. But the fact remained that if he had taken the carriage instead, he wouldn’t be faced with this quandary now.
“For the love of our Lord,” he said in a strangled whisper. “Porter, get the other men. Search high and low for it. Maybe it is abandoned along a side street somewhere.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Porter, gathering the men. They set off into the streets, dispersing like fog beneath sunlight.
Ambrose gritted his teeth, marching back into the hotel. He didn’t want to go back to the bar. Jack Baldwin was still there, and he really didn’t like the man very much. He was also furiously angry and wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. He retreated to his room after telling the concierge to inform him immediately if the carriage was found.
In the room, he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling morosely. Waiting was torture for him. He was a man of action. He should be at his factory in Bradford, not skulking around a London hotel room waiting for word as to whether his carriage was found. Frustration was boiling in his blood. This whole trip had been an utter waste of time, and now he couldn’t even get home!
He sat up, sitting on the edge of the bed, before walking to the window. Outside, the snow was thickening. People were running on the street, eager to get out of the weather, except for the poor street sellers who had to remain at their stalls come rain or shine. If they didn’t work, they didn’t eat. It was as simple as that.
His heart clenched. He remembered a time when he had been that poor. He had grown up in a back lane in Bradford, the son of a struggling baker. He and his four siblings had all shared a room. His mother had to take in sewing to help pay the rent. It had been a dismal, hard existence that he had managed to crawl his way out of with the sweat of his labour and the vision in his mind. He had been working since he was fourteen. And now he was a factory owner, an industrialist, wealthier than he had ever dreamt possible.
But he never forgot where he came from.
Ambrose sighed, staring at a chestnut seller. The man was huddled in his thin coat, blowing at his hands to keep warm. He felt sorry for the man.
He thought of his house in a well-to-do area of Bradford—A home large enough to fit three families, and yet he lived there alone. In fact, he was rarely even there. Most of the time, he was at the factory. His own family still lived in the tenements, stubbornly resisting moving, even though he had offered to buy a house for them.
His ma said that she didn’t want to leave as she would miss the neighbours and his pa just went along with her. He still visited them when he had a chance, but it wasn’t often anymore, and the gap between them just kept growing wider. He felt out of place there but not quite at home where he lived in the fashionable, leafy suburb of Bradford, either.
Betwixt and between, he thought ruefully.I am stuck between two worlds and not truly a part of either of them.
There was a knock on the door. He strode to it, pulling it open. Porter stood there, wringing his cap between his hands.
“We can’t find the carriage, sir,” he said. “We’ve looked everywhere. It could be anywhere in London.”
Ambrose cursed under his breath. “How long will it take to buy another one?”
The driver shrugged. “I will get straight on it, sir.”
“Never mind,” said Ambrose, irritation and impatience rising in his chest again. “I will take a public stagecoach back home. Go and book me on the next one heading to Bradford.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I must get back as quickly as possible.”
“Aye, sir,” said the driver, scurrying away.
Ambrose slammed the door. He detested public stagecoaches and hadn’t ridden in one since he was seventeen. As he had just turned thirty, that was a long time ago. But it was probably the quickest way home at this point. It might take days to find a suitable carriage to buy, and then there were new horses to secure, as well. He could leave Porter here to purchase all of it and then drive it to Bradford. He would be home before the driver was.
