To Dream Again (5 page)

"Forget it. How's your new partner feel about making me your engineer?"

"He doesn't care about you being Jewish, if that's what you mean. When he proposed this deal to me, I knew immediately I wanted you for my engineer. We discussed it, and he agreed. There's no problem."

"When shall I meet this partner of yours?"

"He's not back in England yet, and there's no word yet on when he'll arrive. I'm meeting with his wife tomorrow to show her the train." Nathaniel took another swallow of beer. "He's been in America for quite some time, and it's my understanding she's in charge until he returns. Converting this factory will mean a great deal of work. I'm hoping we can start immediately."

Michael nodded. "It's July. We'll need that much time, if we intend to have the trains out by the Christmas season."

"We? Are you coming to work for me, then?"

"I can't. I just can't." Michael looked at Nathaniel and groaned, in an agony of indecision. "I hate being a tailor. And I have to admit, taking revenge on Lord Leyland would be rather fun."

"Well, then?"

Michael raised his bottle of beer in a gesture of surrender. "All right!" he said, laughing. "I'll do it."

"You won't regret it," Nathaniel promised him.

"I may not live long enough to regret it. Rebecca might kill me."

"If she loves you, she'll stand by you."

"Sure she will. Pigs fly, too." He set down his beer. "If you're to show the train to that woman tomorrow, we'd better get it running."

The two men set to work. They tried using a screwdriver to pull the belt back into place, but that was unsuccessful. "What we need is something with a hook on the end," Michael told him.

Nathaniel set down the train and the two men began to search the flat, looking for a tool that might suit. Half an hour later, they stood in the center of the room, the contents of several crates scattered about their feet.

"I don't believe this," Michael muttered. "The most brilliant inventor I know doesn't have a tool with a hook on the end. What about a buttonhook?"

Nathaniel raked a hand through his hair. He didn't own a buttonhook. Suddenly, an idea struck him, and he snapped his fingers. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Nathaniel picked up the hurricane lamp from his desk, strode out of the room, and descended the stairs, coming to a halt before the door on the landing. He reached out to knock but hesitated, his hand poised in midair. Her lock was broken, he remembered. He didn't want the door to swing open and embarrass the poor girl. He knocked on the wall beside the door instead.

What was her name? Mara, that was it. Mara with the bitterness in her eyes. He waited a moment, but when his knock received no response, he tried again, a bit louder this time.

He heard a slight sound within and the door opened several inches. A pair of gray eyes peered at him through the opening, eyes that widened at the sight of him.

"Have you a buttonhook?"

"I beg your pardon?" she asked in a husky voice. She shook her head as if she didn't understand. The long braid of her dark hair moved slightly against the white of her gown.

"A buttonhook."

She continued to stare at him in confusion, and he wondered if she had quite taken in his words.

He looked down and saw her bare toes curl beneath the hem of her gown, a gown of white flannel. A nightgown. "I'm sorry," he said contritely, returning his gaze to her face. "Were you asleep?"

"Most people are at this hour." Her voice had lost its soft, husky note and was now sharp and definitely irritated.

"Is it so very late?" He gave her a smile meant to be charming, but the irritation in her expression did not soften. "I'm afraid I don't often keep track of the time."

"That does not surprise me, sir."

"Terribly sorry, but it's rather important that I obtain a buttonhook. We're trying to fix my train, you see, because I have a very important meeting in the morning, and it could be quite awkward if the train doesn't work. And it won't work unless I can find a buttonhook. And I can't very well go out and purchase a buttonhook, since it's dark out and the shops are bound to be closed now, so I was hoping—"

Her sigh interrupted him. The door began to close, and he was afraid she intended to slam it in his face. But all she did was murmur, "Wait here," before closing the door.

Several moments later, the door opened again and a buttonhook was thrust toward him. "Here."

"Thank you," he said, reaching out to take it from her. "I appreciate..." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the hand holding out the buttonhook, and in the light of the lamp he held, he saw the scars that marred her skin. Burns.

He took the thin bit of steel from her fingers, and she snatched her hand back, hiding it in the folds of her nightgown.

"Please go."

"Of course." He lifted his gaze again to her face, a proud face, a face of sharply drawn cheekbones and delicately arched brows, a face of soft skin and hard experience. He looked into her eyes and found them as gray and impenetrable as a London fog. "I will return this to you in the morning."

The door closed between them, but Nathaniel remained standing there for a long, thoughtful moment, wondering what had happened to her, wondering what had put scars on her hands and a bitter sadness in her eyes.

Most of all, he wondered what had destroyed the dreams in her heart.

The news came as a complete surprise, and Viscount Leyland did not like surprises. As a boy, he'd hated unwrapping his Christmas presents because the gifts were always a disappointment. As a man, he hated hearing unexpected news because it was usually unfavorable.

He pushed his breakfast aside and gave his secretary a hard stare across one corner of the huge dining table. "Are you certain?"

The stare made Charles Barrett shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Yes, sir." He pulled a letter from the dispatch case on his lap and handed it to his employer. "This came in the post yesterday afternoon."

"You received this letter yesterday?" Charles nodded, and Adrian's voice softened to a less dangerous level when he added, "Why did you not inform me at the time?"

Charles flushed. "I was unable to locate you."

"Mr. Barrett, I realize that you have been my secretary for only two days. Nonetheless, I expect you to make yourself informed of my schedule."

"Yes, sir."

"After our morning meeting here," Adrian continued, "I play squash racquets at my athletic gymnasium from nine until eleven. I then conduct business at the factory until one. I lunch at my club and attend to appointments in the afternoon. After tea, I can be reached here, unless my social obligations carry over into the evening. When there is important news, you will not wait until our meeting the following morning, but bring it to me immediately."

"I will remember that, sir."

"See that you do. And remember, Mr. Barrett, any information that concerns my brother is important news."

The secretary nodded, and Adrian took the single sheet of paper from his hand. He scanned the few lines written there. As he read, his frown deepened, and his displeasure increased. He folded the letter and leaned back in his chair. "So," Adrian murmured, "my bothersome little brother has disappeared. I don't like it, Barrett."

No reply was expected, and Charles made none. He simply waited.

"Where?" Adrian methodically began to consider possible explanations, but with information as scanty as this, there was no way to tell. Nathaniel's absurd notions might have taken him anywhere. Adrian crumpled the note in his fist and straightened in his chair. There was only one course of action.

"Barrett, I want you to telegraph Foster immediately. I want to know exactly where my brother has gone, and what he's doing. Remind Foster that I pay him very well to keep an eye on Nathaniel, and it's time he earned it."

"Yes, sir." Charles placed the crumpled letter in his case, rose to his feet, and departed.

The servants came to clear away the breakfast dishes, but Adrian waved them out of the room and remained seated. He stared at the cold toast on his plate and wondered what Nathaniel was up to now.

Something troublesome, he was certain. When they were children, Nathaniel had been like a fly buzzing about. Never a serious threat to his own plans, just a bloody inconvenience. But then Grandfather had died, and their father had been forced to give Nathaniel a place in the company. Nathaniel, who couldn't string three complete sentences together without garbling them. Nathaniel, who had no idea how a business ought to be run.

The little bastard had become ambitious, though. He'd wormed his way into their grandfather's good graces before Adrian had realized the threat. Then he'd used the same strategy on their father.

Adrian remembered watching in helpless fury as his idiotic little brother became the center of attention at Chase Toys. Everyone at the company had started turning to him for instructions and guidance when their father was unavailable, even though Adrian had been the one trained since childhood to take over the company. It had been torture.

When their father had died, he'd actually left Nathaniel forty-nine percent of Chase Toys, making the two brothers partners in the firm and giving Adrian the shock of his life. Nearly half of what he'd spent his life working for had been stolen from him.

But he'd gotten it back, and he'd sent his little brother packing, ensuring that he would never threaten his position again. When Nathaniel had the gall to start a toy company of his own in St. Louis, he had taken care of that threat, too.

He smiled grimly. Whatever Nathaniel was up to this time, Adrian knew he'd be able to handle it. He'd squelched his little brother's ambitions twice before, and he would again if he had to.

***

Mara did not sleep well that night. Having been wakened in the night by a man who didn't know the first thing about good manners, she'd been unable to go back to sleep for the longest time. Then, when she'd finally drifted off again, she'd been plagued by dreams of Elliot's on the auction block, with her husband mouthing cheery platitudes and her bizarre new neighbor quoting Tennyson as everything was carted away. She awoke feeling gloomy and cross.

She'd spent all of yesterday afternoon calling on other bankers, hoping she could find one willing to take over the loan, but that had proved futile. A business run by a woman was not, it seemed, a wise investment.

It was so unfair, she thought as she walked to the washstand and began her morning bath. James had been the most irresponsible man, but he'd never had trouble financing even the most ridiculous ventures. She, on the other hand, was extremely responsible, but she couldn't obtain a simple business loan.

She picked up a towel and dried off, then pulled undergarments out of the armoire and began to dress. She had only two days left, and she was running out of options. Tomorrow, at five o'clock, she had to give the bank five thousand pounds. She had to find an investor. There was no other way.

She thrust her arms into the sleeves of a white shirtwaist and fastened the buttons, then pulled a black skirt out of the armoire. By refusing to swath herself all in black, she knew she was flouting convention, but she didn't care. She had neither the money nor the inclination to buy mourning clothes. This would have to do.

She slipped a length of black ribbon around her neck beneath her collar and tied it into a bow at her throat, then her hands stilled as she became suddenly aware of music. It sounded like the melody of a calliope. She walked to her window and leaned out to look up at the open window above her own. The music was coming from Mr. Chase's rooms.

She pulled back inside, but an even more curious sound had her glancing up at the ceiling. Along with the music, she could now hear a faint, but definite tapping. She shook her head in puzzlement as she sat down on the edge of her bed. Then she reached for her shoes, remembering only after she had put them on that she had no buttonhook.

With a sigh, she bent down and began to button her shoes by hand. It wasn't surprising, she supposed, that he had forgotten his promise to return her buttonhook first thing in the morning. The man couldn't even tell time.

By the time she finished buttoning her shoes, the curious sounds from upstairs had somehow multiplied into a discordant combination of music, tapping, whirring, and clicking. What on earth was happening up there?

She unbraided her hair, brushed it out, and coiled it into her usual simple chignon. She donned her bonnet and reached for a pair of black kid gloves. After pulling them on, she marched upstairs to retrieve her property.

She remembered how he had stood outside her door the night before, rambling on about trains and important meetings. She thought of his rumpled clothes and dreamy blue eyes. As if that man would have important meetings. And what her buttonhook had to do with it all, she couldn't begin to fathom.

The door at the top of the stairs was open, and the strange barrage of sounds coming from within the room increased in volume as she drew closer. She crossed the landing and halted in the doorway. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she stared into the strangest room she had ever seen.