grew stern. “I’m afraid, Miss Buckleberry, that without the gentleman’s permission, I am unable to share such information—it might be seen as a breach of trust.”
Sylvia fought to keep exasperation from her face and, instead, heaved a put-upon sigh. “Mr. Finch, surely you can see that in order to ensure the school removes as required—”
His face turning to granite, Finch held up a hand. “Miss Buckleberry, I do hope you aren’t thinking to sway me by suggesting the school might not be out of the warehouse by Friday afternoon at the latest.”
Sylvia managed not to glare, but it was a near-run thing. Lips firming, she replied, “Of course not. I’m merely attempting to do the best for the school and locate new premises—”
“As I am endeavoring to do what’s best for the Dock Company.” Finch held her gaze. “I’m glad we understand each other, Miss Buckleberry.”
Sylvia stared at the annoying man and inwardly conceded; he’d dug in his heels and she would get nothing from him. That decided, she favored him with a brief nod, turned, and walked to the still-open door. With her hand on the knob, she glanced back and said, “Normally, I would thank you for your help, sir, but sadly, you’ve been no help at all.”
She walked out and shut the door with a definite click.
She swept down the stairs, through the front doors, down the steps, and halted on the quay. “Men!”
The muffled exclamation and her exasperated expression drew a few looks from passersby. She ignored them and focused on her goal.
How was she to learn the identity of the new tenant?
Finch had said gentleman, singular; that was the only piece of helpful information he’d dropped. She hadn’t yet decided how, precisely, she would approach the new tenant—whether she would opt for engagement and appeal to his better social nature or if she would play on his guilt over ousting the school. She would make that decision when she faced him, as she was determined to do. One way or another, she intended to beard the new tenant, explain matters in simple terms, and see if she could extract some degree of help from that quarter.
Having tapped all those with whom she was familiar, those who knew enough to appreciate her cause, and got nowhere, she was willing to approach the one player in the drama she didn’t know—the newcomer to the docks.
The irony in that hadn’t escaped her; in lieu of gaining help from any locals for a project to further local good, she was seeking assistance from a stranger.
How can I find him?
No inspiration struck. Frowning, she turned south, slowly walking back along Broad Quay. She’d taken only a few paces when, glancing ahead, she saw men gathered in groups in front of a labor exchange.
She halted. The exchanges were how men out of work learned of new jobs on the docks and elsewhere. Several such exchanges were scattered around the city, but the one before her, on the corner of Currant Lane and the narrower quay that ran along the eastern bank of the Frome, was the closest to the warehouse.
If the new tenant needed to hire workers, then the Currant Lane exchange was where he would post his notices.
Slowly, Sylvia smiled, then she stepped out more confidently, heading for the door of the labor exchange.
* * *
“How can I help you, miss?” The young clerk behind the counter looked at Sylvia uncertainly; she wasn’t the usual sort of client who appeared in front of him.
She smiled. “You’re Elroy’s brother, aren’t you?”
The clerk blinked, then his eyes widened. “Oh—you’re the school lady.” The clerk relaxed. “Sorry, miss, I didn’t recognize you at first. Have you come to list a job?”
“No, sadly, but I wondered if you might be able to help me.”
“If I can, I will.” The clerk puffed out his thin chest. “What is it you need help with?”
“I’m trying to learn the name of the businessman who’s taken the lease on the warehouse the school’s been using. It’s a new business coming to town, so I’m sure he’ll have listed at least a few positions with this office.”
“Oh.” Now the clerk looked wary. His eyes shifted to the older man serving others farther along the counter. Then the clerk leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I don’t know as how I can, miss. That sort of information is only given to those who need to know—we don’t even tell the men we send who they’ll be speaking to, who listed the position. We only give out the details of the position and where to apply.”
Sylvia frowned. “Surely you give out the name of the business?”
“Oh. Yes—we do that. The gentleman I think you’re after posted several positions for Cavanaugh Yachts.”
For an instant, Sylvia thought bells were ringing, distorting her hearing. “Cavanaugh Yachts?”
The clerk looked at her anxiously. “Are you all right, miss?”
She waved aside his concern. There were three Cavanaugh brothers—four if you counted the marquess, but this man couldn’t be he. And it was unlikely to be Rand, either, and Godfrey was surely too young...
She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Tell me,” she said, not truly seeing the clerk anymore but a tall man in a morning suit. “Was this gentleman on the tallish side, with wide shoulders and brown hair...” She cast about for words to describe the aura that hung about her nemesis. “And looked to be the sort of gentleman who would laugh in the devil’s face?”
Refocusing on the clerk, she saw he was frowning.
“Actually,” Elroy’s brother said, “now I think of it, there were two of them. Two gentlemen who came in at different times, but hiring for the same business. The first was tall and thin, lanky-like, and he had dark brown hair, but the other gent—the one who listed a position for a secretary this morning—he was like you said.” The clerk nodded earnestly. “Had just such an air about him, you know?”
Sylvia knew all about the airs affected by Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Her wits were reeling, but she seized the straw the clerk had just offered her. “If I wanted to apply for the position of secretary to Cavanaugh Yachts, where would I go?”
The answer was a recently completed building in King Street. Sylvia thanked the clerk, then left the exchange and, gaze leveled and purpose in her stride, walked briskly toward King Street, an explosive mix of determination and rising anger simmering in her veins.
* * *
Kit stood in his inner office and studied the plans spread on the desk before him. Wayland must have been up half the night drawing the detailed sketches, but he’d been bright-eyed and eager when he’d dropped off the plans ten minutes ago with strict instructions that he expected Kit to have checked and approved them by the time Wayland called back in the early afternoon.
“I want to order the timber today,” Wayland had said. “It’ll take at least a day, maybe more, to fill such an order, and I don’t want to find that we’re still waiting on Monday.”
Kit
