Which raised the tantalizing prospect of who the man beside her truly was—what manner of man he actually was.
Pondering that, she gestured to the left. “My lodging house is this way, on the far side of the park.”
He turned with her, then asked, “Tell me what you know of the Dock Company.”
That didn’t take long, but his subsequent questions about the city, about the atmosphere now that, with the advent of larger, heavier ships, the dock work was shifting downriver, displayed an inherent grasp of what made communities tick and prosper.
“So,” he said, “the mayor and the city council are stable and entrenched, but are floundering regarding the adjustments necessary to meet the challenges confronting the city.”
She tipped her head. “That’s a reasonable summation. As yet, there’s been no major public protests, but from time to time, the mood turns rather ugly—or should I say dejected?”
He nodded in understanding. “The latter sounds nearer the mark.”
“This is it.” Sylvia paused outside the gate of the terrace house in which she lodged and turned to face the man she had for years regarded as her romantic nemesis; thankfully, he would never know. She put out her hand. “Thank you for your escort.”
He looked down at her hand—and for an instant, she was sure a hint of the wolf she’d seen in London peeked through—but then he grasped her fingers, engulfing them in his much larger hand, and gently shook. He caught her eyes and smiled—a charming, Lord Kit Cavanaugh smile. “The pleasure of your company was thanks enough.” He released her hand and stepped back, faultlessly executing a graceful bow that consigned every other man in Bristol to the shade. “A good afternoon to you, Miss Buckleberry. No doubt we’ll meet again soon.”
With a lingering smile and a nod, he turned and walked away.
Sylvia watched him go, amazed by the fact that, against odds she’d thought insurmountable, she and the man behind Kit Cavanaugh’s handsome face had reached a comfortable, even companionable, accord.
* * *
Kit reached the warehouse before eight o’clock the next morning, eager to meet the men Wayland had hired to commence work on transforming the building into the Cavanaugh Yachts workshop—their next step in creating the yacht-building enterprise they wanted their company to be.
Wayland was already there, waiting outside and as eager as Kit to welcome their new employees; Wayland leaned against the door as Kit unlocked it. “I concentrated on finding the best possible foreman, and I think I succeeded in that. Mulligan has experience from clipper days and has even worked on several yachts. He understood everything I spoke of, which you must admit is encouraging.”
Kit grinned as he hauled the doors open. Most men found Wayland’s descriptions and directions difficult to interpret, rendered in specialized jargon as they were.
Together, he and Wayland propped the doors wide, then returned to stand shoulder to shoulder on the threshold, looking out.
“And then,” Wayland said, rocking on his heels, “I asked Mulligan to help me select four carpenters to make up a senior team to work under him.” Wayland’s grin grew wider. “Best decision I’ve made in years. We had the right men in a trice. All were out of work thanks to the switch to iron ships, and they’re as eager to leap into yacht-building as we are.”
“Excellent!” Kit saw five large men rolling along the lane toward them. “What wages did you offer?”
Wayland named a sum for the carpenters and a larger figure for Mulligan.
“Fair, indeed generous, but not outrageous.” Kit tipped his head in approval. “Good work.”
Wayland shrugged. “If all goes well, these men will be the core of our workforce,
and given their experience, it seemed wise to make them feel valued.”
Kit nodded as the five men reached them.
Wayland bade the five welcome, shook their hands, then introduced Kit as “Kit Cavanaugh, the majority partner in the business.”
Kit offered his hand as well. To Kit, his title was neither here nor there, and better the men got to know him before they learned of it; in his experience—and Wayland’s—people held a lot of preconceived notions about the nobility that he would be happy to avoid if he could. He echoed Wayland’s welcome and added his hopes that, through developing Cavanaugh Yachts into a thriving business, they would all prosper.
“That’s certainly our hope, sir,” Mulligan rumbled. The largest of the group, he was a heavily built man of indeterminate age with a virtually bald pate circled by a narrow tonsure of graying brown hair. His features were florid—as were those of all the men—but not in the way of men who overindulged in drink. Rather, their ruddy complexions had come courtesy of wind whipping off water and working outdoors.
The other men were Shaw, Hodgkins, Miller, and Boots. Once the introductions and welcomes were behind them, Kit said, “I’ll pay you this afternoon for your work today, at our agreed rates. I’m hoping that by next Friday, we’ll have a secretary in place, and she’ll disburse all wages every Friday afternoon.”
The men nodded, and Mulligan said, “Thank ye, sir—that’s good to know.”
All five men looked eagerly, almost longingly, into the warehouse.
Smiling, Wayland turned, spread his arms wide, and walked inside. “Right, then. This is to be a modern workshop expressly tooled to build ocean-going yachts. To that end—”