Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards 2)

This was it.

She was ready.

Except she wasn’t ready for what her father said, before Hattie had even come to a complete stop. “Finish up that shipment and then come back to the office. I’ve sold the business.”

It did not matter that Hattie was looking directly at her father when he spoke. It did not matter that her hearing was perfectly sound, as was her grasp of the English language.

She simply didn’t comprehend what he’d said.

She’d clearly misheard.

Was it possible he’d spoken in another language?

No—it had been English. Clear and honest, in the firm, aging voice he used with the men scurrying about around them, that he was selling the business out from under her.

“What?” Hattie looked to Augie, whose gaze was instantly clearer, the prior evening’s debauchery chased away. “Did you know this?”

Augie shook his head. “Why?”

The earl leveled Augie with a cool look. “Because if you took it in hand, you’d ruin it.”

Augie’s brows shot together as Hattie’s heart pounded. “That’s not true.”

“Och,” Cheadle scoffed, letting years on the water slide into his voice. “Ye never wanted it. Ye never cared for it. Aye, ye want the money it offers and the life it provides, but the business—” He shook his head. “You’ve never wanted the business. And I’m weary of waitin’ for you to feel different.” He waved a hand. “I’ve sold.”

“You can’t!” Augie said.

“I can,” the earl replied. “I have. It’s mine. I built it. I won’t see it driven into the sea. It goes to a man who’ll keep it thriving.”

Confusion flared. None of this was going to plan.

She looked to the wooden slats beneath her feet, the breeze from the river swirling around them. How many times had she been here, on this very dock, where she’d used to hide in the shadows of the haulers while he finished his work? “Father—”

He cut her off, raising one wizened hand. “No, Bean.” She pressed her lips flat together at the childhood name. “You’re a good girl. But it was never going to be you.”

The words, so matter-of-fact, took the air from her lungs, replacing it with hot fury. “Why not?”

He waved a hand in the air. “You know why.”

“I don’t, as a matter of fact.” She lifted her chin, hating the way he avoided her eyes. “Tell me.”

After an eternity, he met her gaze. “You know why.”

“Because I’m a woman.”

He nodded. “No one would have taken you seriously.”

She stiffened at the blow from her father. “That’s not true.”

I have no difficulty believing that you can run that business better than them. The memory came unbidden, Whit’s words in the darkness. And he’d meant them.

Or had he? He hadn’t meant the rest, obviously.

This hadn’t been the plan.

What had happened? Where was Whit? A thread of unease coursed through her. Was he unwell? Had something happened to him?

Unaware of the riot of her thoughts, the earl waved a hand in the air. “A dozen men on the docks. A handful of the customers we serve.”

Anger rose like bile. “A handful?” she said. “Do you know how much I correspond with our customers? How well I know the men on the docks? How well I know the cargo, the ships, the tide tables? I’ve been holding this business together while you’ve been ailing. While he’s been—” She pointed to Augie. Looked to him, taking in his wide eyes. While he’s been threatening it all. “It doesn’t matter. I’m good, Father. I know this business—all of it—better than anyone.”

The wind caught the words and whipped them away, along with her future. Hattie’s breath came harsh with her frustration and her desire to prove herself.

Horrifyingly, tears threatened.

No. She willed them away. She couldn’t cry. Wouldn’t. Dammit, why could men rage and riot endlessly, and the moment women felt a modicum of anger, tears came on a flood?

She exhaled, her breath ragged. “This is all I ever wanted.”

The earl watched her, assessing. “Bean.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He paused. Started again. “They know you. They like you, even. You’re a good match for them—with a clever brain and a smart mouth. But Hattie—they wouldn’t have worked with you. Not without a man to make certain the clockwork ran smoothly.”

The tears began to sting behind her nose, into her throat, where they caught in a painful knot. “That’s horseshit.”

The ancient sea captain in her father did not flinch at the curse. “Maybe . . .” he added. “If you had a husband.”

She couldn’t help the humorless laugh that came at her father’s words. “The specter of a husband was always your worry, Father. How many times have you invoked the prospect as a reason I would never be able to run the business?”

“It’s still a reason. I meant before. Maybe if you’d been able to find a husband before. A decent one. With a head on his shoulders. But that wasn’t to happen, was it?”

No. Because no one wanted to marry Hattie. No decent man with a head on his shoulders wanted an imperfect woman who spoke her mind and had a nose for business for a wife.

Too brash. Too brazen. Too big. Too much.

Too much and still . . . somehow . . . not enough.

She looked down at the dock again, where her dirty boots stood stark against the wood, bleached from decades of London rain. She still held the packet of sweets, the lading papers for the ship beyond, clutched in her ink-stained fingers. When was the last time she’d seen them without stains?

How much had she worked for this? Dreamed of it?

So much for the Year of Hattie.

A single, fat tear fell to the dock.

Augie cursed softly and spoke, surprising everyone. “Why now?”

“Because I got an offer.”

“From where?” This, from Augie.

A pause as her father seemed to consider his answer. To consider answering. And in that pause, Hattie knew the truth. She answered for him, the wind whipping around her, pulling her hair from its moorings and sending her skirts into a wild dance. “Saviour Whittington.”

The earl looked down the dock, past the empty ships and the single empty berth on the far end. “You always were the smart one.”

“Not smart enough for you to give me a chance,” Hattie snapped.

“Who is Saviour Whittington?” Augie asked.

The earl leveled his son with a cold gaze. “You really should know the names of the men you try to fleece.”

Understanding dawned. “The Bastards.”

“Goddammit, Augie!” the earl thundered, drawing the attention of half a dozen men on the docks. “I ought to turn you over to them.”

He didn’t have to. They already knew Augie’s involvement. Whit already knew. He didn’t need Augie’s name, or Augie himself. He was to have been paid in Augie’s knowledge. That was the first of the two demands.

She reached for her father, setting an urgent hand on his coat sleeve. “Wait. He doesn’t want the business. He wants Augie to tell him where to find the man pulling the strings of the hijackings.” She looked to her brother. “Do you know where to find him?”