Three Nights with a Scoundrel (Stud Club #3)(15)

If certain powerful men learned just how he’d amassed this fortune and just what he intended to do with it …

Well, he already knew the completion of that thought, didn’t he? Those certain men would arrange to have him waylaid in a darkened alleyway, pummeled to death.

He shuddered, thinking of Leo and his broken face.

His secretary, Thatcher, followed him into his private office, waving a clutch of papers. “The morning post, sir.”

“What’s in it?”

Thatcher riffled through the papers. “A report on the fluctuating price of indigo. A letter from the Benevolence Society for the Deserving Poor, requesting the renewal of the investors’ generous subscription. The contract for lease of the Dover property. Your express from the mills.”

“Give it here. The express, I mean. Leave the rest on the blotter, and you may go.”

Thatcher did as asked, as always.

Julian broke the wax seal and quickly scanned the letter in his hands. He now demanded twice-weekly expresses from the mills, and he always read them first thing. Worker morale remained high, his agent reported, and production was steady.

Good, all good. After the flare of labor riots earlier that year, he’d been keeping close watch on his mills. Outside efforts to mobilize dissent amongst his workers had so far met with little success. And little wonder—his laborers were the best paid of any textile workers in the region, and he took pains to make them feel secure in their posts. He’d even gone so far as to visit each mill personally and assure the workers no jobs would be lost to the new machines.

It wasn’t such a radical formula to Julian: Invest a measure of good will in the workers, reap benefits in the form of steady production. He’d never understand why the other mill owners didn’t grasp the concept. But then, their loss was his gain. His mills’ reputation for consistent, high-quality production was the source of many lucrative military contracts. Over the course of the past decade, more than half the enlisted men in the British Army had marched into the fray wearing Aegis wool on their backs. When they fell in battle, their wounds were bound with Aegis flannel.

Now, with the wars over, England’s economy was depressed. But the wealthy still had coin to spend. Mr. James Bell made certain the country’s finest mercers, drapers, and upholsterers all carried Aegis cloth in their shops. Meanwhile, Julian Bellamy set the fashions, assuring those shops of a steady trade.

He called Thatcher back in. “Here,” he said, hastily scrawling his signature on the lease before passing it across the desk. “This is done. Tell the Benevolence Society we’ll renew the subscription, and direct the warehouse to send over any surplus bolts of cloth for their use.”

“Yes, sir. And if you please, sir, the tailors are here.”

“Send them in.”

Schwartz and Cobb filed into the office, laden with patterns and samples. With a curt nod of greeting, Julian waved the latest sketches to his desk. He had not lied to Lily on this count, at least. He was late for this meeting with his tailors. Unconscionably late. The drawings and samples before him represented the culmination of a year’s preparation and strategy, and his men had teetered on the brink of action for months. The plans wanted only his final approval before a production schedule could be set. But something always held him back. The patterns weren’t right, or the dyes were inferior, or the price of wool too dear … Again and again, he’d found himself delaying, for one reason and another.

Strike that.

He’d been delaying for one reason. No other.

Lily.

Her sweet rosemary scent bloomed in his memory, and his thoughts tangled in the lush fringe of her eyelashes. He forced down the tide of emotion in his chest. Not here. He could not allow himself to think of her here. Whatever nocturnal exploits Julian Bellamy enjoyed, Mr. James Bell did not have time for women.

And neither man could afford to contemplate love.

“I told a dreadful lie today,” Lily said, even before the greetings were out. Standing in the entry of the Duke of Morland’s drawing room, she hugged her hostess tightly and confessed, “Several lies, as a matter of fact.”

Amelia pulled back from the embrace. “Really? That seems unlike you.”

“It is.” With a fretful shake of her head, Lily squeezed her friend’s arm in supplication. “I’m here to beg your assistance, Amelia. I have to make those lies the truth. At least some of them.”

“Well, I am all anticipation to hear what this is about. It’s not often I’m recruited into clandestine schemes, you know. But please, do sit down first and take some tea.”

Lily’s racing pulse insisted there wasn’t a moment to waste. But she would win no favors by being rude. And today she needed to ask a very big favor indeed.

Amelia steered her toward a pair of French armchairs situated beneath a tall, lace-draped window. A small table between the two chairs held a tea service and refreshments. In accordance with Amelia’s talent for homemaking, all was the picture of refinement and good taste. When Lily sat down, she found the striped silk upholstery to be so smooth and taut, it took some effort to keep from sliding off the seat.

“What’s brought you to Town?” Lily asked, as her friend poured tea. “I thought you and the duke would remain in Cambridgeshire until the babe is born.”

Amelia nipped a lump of sugar into the teacup and stirred. “Oh, it was Spencer’s wish to return to London. He wanted us closer to specialists and physicians when my time draws near.” She shrugged, extending the cup and saucer to Lily. “Never mind that the man owns England’s largest stud farm and has attended hundreds of equine births. When it comes to his own child, he’s suddenly a bundle of nerves.”