don’t want to hear from me again, but if there should be anything you need me for, here’s where you can find me. You understand, I would not expect you to deal with any consequences alone.’
He handed her a card.
‘Thank you,’ Cordelia said, ‘but I am sure...’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know.’
‘That’s something,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Cordelia.’
He did not touch her. She felt an absurd, contrary desire that he would kiss her. ‘Goodbye.’ She touched his temple, echoing his own gesture. ‘I hope whichever direction you take, it makes you happier too.’
He acknowledged this admission of her own state of mind with a nod. Then he turned and walked through the door. She stood where she was. The outer door opened softly, then closed. She went to the window, pulling the curtains to hide her, and looked out. The lamps were lit around the square. He emerged a few minutes later, through the main hotel entrance. She could not imagine what the night porter must have thought, and did not care. She thought he would stop, look up, even though she was careful not to let him see her, but he did not. He pulled his coat around him, and headed across the square, in the direction of the river, without looking back.
Chapter Three
Cavendish Square, London—spring 1837
Iain’s hands automatically went round the woman to stop the pair of them falling. His body recognised her before his mind caught up, before even he had a glimpse of her face, which was burrowed into his chest. ‘Cordelia.’
Blue-grey eyes, wide with the shock, met his. Her hand went to her mouth, as if to push back the words, and he remembered that same gesture, self-silencing, only the last time it had been a cry of ecstasy she had stifled after he’d warned her about the walls of the hotel being thin. Her legs had been wrapped around his waist. The hair that was now so demurely curled and primped under her bonnet had been streaming in wild disarray over her shoulders on to the floorboards. Now, she was struggling to free herself. He let her go, but blocked the doorway, a firm shake of his head telling her he’d read her thoughts. Not a chance, he told her. She glared at him, but retreated into the room.
‘Mr Hunter. You are a tad early.’
Lord Henry Armstrong held out his hand. Iain took it automatically, his mind racing. ‘Five minutes at most,’ he replied. ‘Am I interrupting?’
It was a rhetorical question, for the atmosphere in the room was tense. The muffled sound of heated words had been audible in the hallway as he handed over his hat and gloves. And now he looked at her properly, Cordelia’s bonnet was askew, her shawl dangling from one arm. Not, it seemed, escaping his arrival, but running from the man who claimed to be her father.
The man who was now bestowing upon him a smile which Iain found peculiarly irritating. Condescending. Patronising. Mendacious. One or all, it aroused all his base instincts, and made him want to punch something.
‘Cordelia,’ said his lordship, ‘this is Mr Iain Hunter.’
It was the mute appeal in her eyes that kept him silent. Lady Cordelia, whom he knew as the widow, Mrs Cordelia Williamson, was obviously eager that her father should remain in ignorance of their previous acquaintance. Her father! Iain bent over the hand she extended and just touched her fingertips. The eyes were indeed the same colour as Lord Armstrong’s, but he could discern no other resemblance.
‘Do sit down, Mr Hunter. And you, Cordelia.’
When he spoke to his daughter, there was a steeliness that made Iain’s hackles rise. ‘I came here to discuss business,’ he said. ‘I don’t see that is any concern of your—your—Lady Cordelia’s.’
Lord Armstrong laughed, a dry little sound like paper rustling. ‘Take a seat, Mr Hunter, and I’ll explain,’ he said, taking his own seat behind the desk.
Iain paid him no heed. Cordelia stood poised for flight, but he was damned if he’d let her go without an explanation. ‘You’ll take the weight off your feet, Mrs—Lady Cordelia,’ he said, pressing her down firmly into one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs, pulling the other closer to her, stretching out a leg casually in front of hers, just to make his message clear. She threw him a look, but he was pretty certain it was because she resented his managing her, rather than any desire to flee.
‘Mr Hunter,’ Lord Armstrong said, addressing his daughter, ‘is hoping to win a contract to build steam ships for Sheikh al-Muhanna.’
‘Celia’s husband!’ From the tone of her voice, this was news to Cordelia. ‘You mean the prince has entrusted you to award a contract to build ships on his behalf?’ she demanded of her father.
‘As you would know, if you were au fait with family matters,’ Lord Armstrong replied pointedly, ‘my son-in-law is very ambitious for his principality. It is not simply a matter of building ships, he wishes the skills to be passed on to his own people. Since it is a well-known fact that England is at the forefront of the industry...’
‘I think you’ll find that it’s Scotland, actually. The Clyde to be more specific,’ Iain interjected.
‘Yes, yes, we are all one country,’ Lord Armstrong said with a condescending smile.
‘Aye, when it suits you.’
‘As you say.’
His lordship took a visible breath. His daughter—hell and damnation, that woman was Lord Armstrong’s daughter!—sat quite still, ramrod straight, only the nervous tapping of her little boot at the hem of her gown giving her away.
‘The long and the short of it is,’ Iain said, addressing Cordelia directly, ‘I’ve the best people for the job, and I build the best ships, so his lordship here is going to grease the diplomatic wheels and jump through all the hoops of permissions and licences on my behalf. Not to put too fine a point on it, unless I have him on my side to tell me which pockets should be lined and which pieces of paper must be signed, it doesn’t matter how good my ships are, they will never be built. In return for these valuable services, your father will get a hefty fee. Isn’t that right, Lord Armstrong?’
Cordelia’s response to this straightforward speech was, to Iain’s relief, one of glee. Lord Armstrong, who should have been put firmly in his place, had the look of a cat about to pounce.
‘Not quite right, Mr Hunter,’ he said. ‘My terms have changed.’
‘I’m not giving you any more money.’
His lordship smiled. ‘I don’t want any of your money.’
The hairs on Iain’s neck stood on end, for that smile was the very opposite of benign, whatever that was. Malign? ‘You were keen enough to take it when we first talked.’
‘Since we first talked, Mr Hunter, my circumstances have changed.’
‘Be that as it may, your circumstances have nothing to do with me.’
‘On the contrary,’ Lord Armstrong said. ‘In fact, I hope that in the future our circumstances will be very much—entwined.’
Iain
