of the bathhouse. Not after buying this place only weeks ago.’
‘Do you have any ideas?’
Hart took a sip of his brandy and then stared down into his glass as if he would find his answer there. ‘Sarah and I are staying with Lyonsdale and his family for a few days. I will mention it to him tonight and, should he be interested, I will arrange a meeting with the three of us. You can lay this plan of yours before him then.’
Lane rubbed his hand on his thigh as if he were rubbing out a spot on the soft buckskin of his breeches. He didn’t want to have to wait to settle this matter. He wanted to approach the owner of the hotel now and begin searching for an engineer competent in the systems they would need to manage the flow of water. He would need a survey of the property next door to present to the engineers. But he couldn’t do any of that until he knew how much money they had at their disposal.
While Hart with his charm and pedigree was perfect at enticing investors to fund their projects, Lane was infinitely better at executing them—and this plan was exceptional. It was easy money. Once the new spa was complete, it would practically run itself. He would hire a competent manager and return to London in search of his next financial investment.
The Duke of Lyonsdale had helped them fund a few of their larger business ventures in the past. He would certainly see the potential in this one. If only Lane did not have to wait so long for his answer.
‘How much money do you think Lyonsdale will be willing to give us?’
Hart gave a slight lift of his shoulder. ‘How much money do you think we will need? I’m sure you have a number in mind.’
Lane pointed to another number further down the page.
Hart’s brows rose. ‘Yes, we will definitely need help with that. Let me see what I can do and I will let you know what he says.’
As he stood to leave, Lane checked his watch.
‘What time is it?’ Hart asked.
‘Half past three.’
‘I should be off. I’ll send word to you in the morning on the outcome of our discussion. In the meantime, don’t look at any more properties. We can’t afford for you to get another one of your brilliant ideas.’
‘I won’t. This idea has my full attention. I think I’ll go for a walk. After spending a good part of my afternoon in this dusty space, I could use the fresh air.’
‘Lyonsdale is up near the Royal Crescent. You might want to explore that area. I don’t believe there are any businesses to distract you.’
‘I’ll consider it.’
‘You might even consider finding a woman or two. That should keep you out of trouble until you hear from me.’
‘I have better things to do.’ But even as he said it, an image of the woman from the Pump Room popped into his head. He consciously pushed thoughts of her aside. ‘I’m determined to find a way to improve the productivity here at the coffee house. There is no sense in missing an opportunity to increase our income with this property until we change it to a spa.’
‘If we change it over to a spa.’
‘When we change it. I have faith that you will find a way to get us the money that we need.’
‘We shall see.’ Hart downed the rest of his brandy. ‘Even if we get the money, what makes you believe the owner of The Fountain Head Hotel will be interested in selling it to us? I’ve heard it’s the finest hotel in Bath and a haven for single gentlemen. With all the unmarried men visiting this town, it must turn a pretty profit.’
‘They’ll sell it. I’m good at brokering deals such as this and I want that property.’
‘Really, Humphrey, this is not the time or place for such behaviour.’
The feminine voice came through the thick shrubbery in the wooded area with views of the Royal Crescent that Lane found himself walking in almost an hour later. After living in London all his life, he felt more at home on cobblestones or on horseback than he did walking along a wooded path. But the wide promenade in front of the Crescent was so congested with finely dressed people of all ages that Lane grew weary of the slow pace of those walking in front of him as they strolled along under their parasols and in their beaver hats. Something told him that he was better off heading out into Barton Fields, the huge expanse of lawn opposite the long curved row of honey-coloured terraced stone residences that formed the Royal Crescent.
The air was fresher and cleaner here in Bath and being outside exerting oneself through a brisk walk felt invigorating. Because of that, when he reached the end of the field, Lane uncharacteristically decided to continue on to the wooded area beyond. And it was there that the voice of the unknown woman caught his attention. The tone she used to address her companion had him slowing down. What behaviour had this gentleman committed that warranted such exasperation?
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she continued. ‘You know that I am right.’
The privet hedgerow between them was about ten inches higher than his six-foot frame and too lush to peer through the leaves to the other side.
‘Honestly, I would have stayed at home if I knew this was your intention.’
The gentleman in question remained silent. Or, if he spoke, it was too low for Lane to hear. He stepped closer to the hedgerow and listened intently for any response. He heard a bit of rustling, like the sound of the fabric of a lady’s skirt being moved. Although he devoted his attention to business, Lane wasn’t a monk. He had lifted a skirt or two...or three or four, in his time. That was a sound that a man didn’t forget.
‘Oh, now you have me in a tangle. I do wish you would stop.’ The woman’s tone had shifted from that of exasperation to pleading.
It was in really bad form to listen to what was happening a few feet away from him. He should walk away. He should not be picturing the escapade those two were having in the woods—in the very public woods.
His thoughts flashed to an image of the woman from the Pump Room and how he had been picturing the two of them together yesterday—in the very public bath. At least his fantasy involved an empty building, after it had been closed for the day.
‘Humphrey, no! Don’t you do it. Humphrey!’
There was an urgency in her voice that gave him pause. Perhaps the silent Humphrey was manhandling her. Suppose she did not want him to lift her skirts here in a public garden. Lane’s right hand drew up into a tight fist.
‘Is everything all right?’ he called through the hedge. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’
The rustling stopped and there was a marked silence. The only sound now was the faint chirping of birds in a far-off tree.
‘Now do you see what you’ve done?’ Her voice dropped and, if he hadn’t been standing with his ear practically in the bush, he wouldn’t have heard it.
‘What
