given—her colour had been too high and her manner too abrupt. Everything about her had been too much at odds with her desperation before they’d fought. Was she in some sort of trouble? Why did she need Viv’s help in particular? And, more importantly, what had changed her mind?
He handed the sword back to Viv.
‘Mrs Blackwell did intend to give it to you. But your birthday is not for another few months. She could have come back any day. But it had to be today that she saw you. Why?’
‘You have far too cautious a mind, cousin. I’m London-bound at Mrs Blackwell’s specific request. Going to meet my destiny.’ Viv rubbed a hand along his stubble and belched. ‘And while we are there you can introduce me to all the heiresses that your dear mama has lined up for you. She possesses a certain flair for discovering heiresses. Don’t deny it! My mother constantly writes of the despair you cause your mother.’
Ben knew precisely what Viv meant. Every season since Alice’s death his mother had made it her mission to sniff out a possible replacement. She liked to pretend that the way Alice had died had no bearing. A tragic accident, best forgotten.
No matter where he went in London she arranged for accidental meetings with women she deemed suitable. While all the while remaining deaf to his arguments that he wanted to choose his own bride in his own time, or indeed that he had a good enough heir in Viv. Every time he rejected one of her protégées she’d sigh and remind him how his father would want him to do his duty if he were alive, and how as his mother all she wanted was the best for him.
The truth was, none of the debutantes excited him. And what was the point in indulging in a meaningless affair with some piece of Haymarket ware? He knew what he’d shared with Alice. He also knew that it was in spite of his mother rather than because of his mother that he’d fallen for Alice. And he’d vowed that any bride of his would not have to suffer what he’d inadvertently caused Alice to suffer. Never again. He could not make it up to Alice, but he could prevent it from reoccurring.
There had been a spark, a flash of chemistry between him and Mrs Blackwell. And he could have murdered Viv for interrupting him. He’d wanted to see if it was real. If her lips did taste as sweet as he’d imagined.
‘Is there a Mr Blackwell?’
‘I’m speaking of the bright lights of London and pretty heiresses and you want to discuss Mrs Blackwell?’ Viv gave him a quick indulgent smile. ‘Well, I believe she is an ape-leading spinster. Her father’s name was Blackwell. He was alive when Papa bought me my first sword. Now, enough of the woman. I’m much more interested in strategy. Do I wear my plum waistcoat or my emerald-green with the sword?’
‘Strategy?’
‘When Mrs Blackwell placed this sword in my hands I knew I was accepting her trust and admiration. I plan to fulfil her request. This sword needs to be seen and it will be—with all the bravado I can muster.’
Ben tapped his finger against his lips. His sense of unease increased.
Why the pretence? What had been Mrs Blackwell’s true intention in coming here today?
He forced his mind away from the duel they had shared. If Viv had not interrupted she would have been in his arms, looking up at him with her marvellous eyes. That jolt of energy coursed through him again at the mere memory. He’d thought that part of him dead, but it was there and alive. And she was the cause.
‘You are sure you know of no other reason why Miss Blackwell would seek you out?’ he asked.
‘Relax, cousin, and accept good fortune when it comes your way.’ Viv made another flourish with his new sword. ‘It might seem a large thing, even insurmountable, to Mrs Blackwell, but it is something I am delighted to do.’
‘You’re mistaken. She needed your help with something else, but after she spoke with you she changed her mind.’
Viv rolled his eyes. ‘You can believe what you want. It is my sword now, and I shall enjoy it. You’re bad-tempered because she chose me over you. Because someone proved you were merely human at fencing. You had to lose some time. Be grateful it was in private. Face it. Mrs Blackwell did us both a favour.’
He stalked off with the sword tucked under his arm, leaving Ben standing there.
‘We are far from finished, Eleanor Blackwell,’ Ben muttered, reaching for his walking stick. ‘Whatever trouble you are in, giving Viv that sword has only increased it tenfold. You must trust me on this.’
‘I failed, Grandfather.’
Eleanor regarded her grandfather’s portrait, which hung next to her great-great-grandfather’s sword in the office at the foundry. Always when she re-entered the office she spoke to the painting. It made her feel as if she wasn’t the only one left who cared about the company.
Ever since she’d returned from Sir Vivian’s she’d been trying to work up the courage to come into this room. In many ways the office still felt as if it belonged to her grandfather and she was only borrowing it, even twenty years after his death. Her father had lacked the courage to change it, and Eleanor had never wanted to. She always found inspiration and peace in the old leather chair, the walnut desk and the various swords hanging on the walls. But today everything stood in mute rebuke. Even the Villumiay clock her grandfather had won just before he died seemed to pause and frown, as if it knew how far her failure extended. She’d lacked the courage even to ask.
Eleanor had always considered herself the saviour of the firm, the protector of its heritage. She was the one who had rescued it when it had been on the brink of collapse after her father died. She was the one who had made the business what it was today—thriving, and one of the biggest employers in Shotley Bridge. She had kept her stepfather out of the day-to-day running of the company and ensured it flourished. But today she’d learnt it was all an illusion. When it really counted she’d put her personal aversion to Sir Vivian before the needs of the company.
She hadn’t even asked the question! Hadn’t given him a chance to refuse!
‘I failed today, Grandfather, but tomorrow I will find another way.’ She blinked rapidly, keeping back the tears. Whatever happened, she refused to give in. She wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. She enjoyed challenges. She thrived on them. ‘I will succeed. This company is my heritage, not anyone else’s.’
‘Ah, there you are, Eleanor. I have been searching everywhere for you. It was most remiss of you to go off without informing me.’
Eleanor dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Just what she needed—the Reverend Algernon Forecastle, her stepfather’s nephew, making an appearance. He slithered into the room and deposited himself at her grandfather’s desk.
‘When I am in charge of this benighted company one of the first things I’m doing is sacking that man in the patched waistcoat and frayed trousers. He is not the sort of person we want representing Moles. He told me to mind my business and go and practise my sermons on the cows, sheep and other animals in the field, rather than bothering honest folk who were going about their daily business. The cheek of the man! I only preach on Sundays.’
Eleanor breathed deeply and reminded herself that getting angry with Algernon wouldn’t help anyone. He wasn’t responsible for her failure. She was. But he made it sound as if running a business was easy, when she had dedicated her life to making sure that it didn’t fail. Even now, despite all her success, she woke up in a sweat, having dreamt that
