The Bargain of a Baroness Read online

  “William,” Hannah offered, relieved to learn that the portrait painter was indeed related to Lily Overby, the wife of an importer for Wellingham Imports. More importantly, she was the illegitimate sister of Gabriel, Earl of Trenton.

  “William, yes, that’s him,” Sophia said as she clapped her hands together. “He’s been promoted by Thomas again. Why, if Graham never returns from Boston, I expect Mr. Overby will end up running the business alongside Mr. Vandermeer’s oldest son.”

  The mention of Graham Wellingham had Hannah inhaling sharply. She lifted her napkin to cover her mouth, pretending she had burned her tongue.

  Her brother noticed. He was about to put voice to a platitude, but Hannah’s sharp glance in his direction had his jaws clamping shut.

  “How very fortunate for Mr. Overby,” Hannah murmured, turning her attention to her breakfast.

  The conversation moved to the weather, and after a few more minutes, Hannah took her leave of the breakfast parlor with the excuse that she really needed to return to Harrington House.

  Although her mother’s and brother’s reactions to her announcement were entirely expected, the one her father aimed in her direction was not.

  One of consternation.

  So when she was about to step into the Mayfield town coach for the trip back to Harrington House, she wasn’t surprised when James joined her at the curb. “I am fine, Father, really,” she said as the driver opened the coach door.

  “Do not despair, for your mother does not know what I do.”

  Hannah furrowed a blonde brow. “And what is it you know?”

  James allowed an impish grin. “Plan to attend Lord Weatherstone’s ball on Tuesday night, and you shall find out.”

  Her eyes widening in wonder, Hannah was prevented from asking for more information when her father gave her a deep bow and returned to the house, his quick steps belying his advanced age.

  Chapter 14

  A Family Reunion

  Meanwhile, in Wapping

  Having arranged for dray carts to take the Alanzaar’s cargo to Wellingham Imports the day before meant Graham didn’t have to be at the docks right at dawn. Now he watched as the last of the crates were loaded onto the carts, his chronometer just then registering ten o’clock.

  “Is this all of it?” Graham asked as he regarded the array of vehicles lined up next to the Alanzaar. The ship’s early arrival the day before had been a blessing for Graham—he didn’t do well on the water and, as a result, was still unsteady on dry land—but it had meant there wasn’t a team of laborers to offload the cargo until later in the day.

  “Isn’t that enough?” Mr. Croft asked as he gave Graham a look of chagrin. “Most of what was on board was yours.” Croft, the ship’s chief mate, had overseen the unloading of the crates, ensuring those marked for Wellingham Imports were ready for transport that morning.

  Giving the chief mate a nod, Graham accepted the last sheet of papers associated with the cargo. “It never looks as large when it’s loaded like this,” he said.

  “And it will look even smaller when it’s been uncrated,” Croft reminded him.

  Graham allowed a bark of laughter as he shook Croft’s hand. “Good to meet you, sir.” Then he stepped into the Wellingham coach, and the parade of coach and carts made its way toward London.

  Meanwhile, at Wellingham Imports, London

  Thomas Wellingham stood outside his first floor office, leaning on the railing to regard what appeared to be chaos on the warehouse floor below. Burly men pushed crates this way and that as even burlier men loaded them onto delivery vehicles. Horses neighed in protest as they were forced to wait until carts were full before they could be put into motion. Then they disappeared out the rectangular openings in the warehouse wall at the opposite end of the building.

  “You look as if you’re lording over your domain,” Emma Wellingham teased as she crested the wooden stairs that led from the entry of Wellingham Imports’ main building.

  Dressed in a sky blue day gown and pelisse and a felt hat of a slightly darker blue, she could have been any matron out for a walk near Puddle Dock. Instead, she was the head accountant for the company she owned with her husband, arriving a bit later than usual to begin her workday.

  Chuckling, Thomas turned to give her a peck on her cheek. “I’m actually on the lookout for a particular delivery,” he countered. “How did it go with Miss Overby this morning?”

  Emma grinned. “Very well, I think. I have been dismissed, which is why I’m here a bit earlier than I thought I would be.”

  “Dismissed?” he repeated, his brows furrowing.

  Her grin widening into a smile, Emma said, “She won’t need me to pose any longer. Thinks she might even finish the painting later today, which is timely. Apparently Lady Simpson wants her to paint the Simpson family portrait next.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” Thomas replied, anxious to see the finished product. He had commissioned the young artist to paint his wife’s portrait several months earlier, but given Laura Overby’s sudden popularity, she had put him off until a few weeks ago. “Do you like what you’ve seen so far?”

  Emma shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t looked at it.” At his expression of surprise, she added, “I thought you were.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t dared to take a peek. She always leaves a cloth over it,” he claimed.

  “Well, I guess I want to be surprised,” Emma murmured.

  “Are you worried she hasn’t rendered you truthfully?”

  “I’m worried she has,” Emma replied with a giggle. “I cannot imagine why you thought it necessary for this painting to be done at my age.”

  Thomas gave a start. “I want it for my office.”

  “I do hope you’re not expecting it to be like the one in Mr. Vandermeer’s office,” she warned. The large painting on the wall opposite Todd Vandermeer’s desk was of his wife Deborah, but it was hardly a portrait. That painting was of her mostly-nude back and her profile, a satin drape barely covering her bare bottom.

  To his credit, a red flush appeared on Thomas’ face. “I’d have to keep the office locked all the time,” he replied with a guffaw. “Lest there be a parade of your clerks coming in to take a look at their boss’s bare bum.”

  Emma didn’t have a chance to scold him when a commotion near one of the large openings in the opposite wall had them both turning at the same time.

  “Isn’t that Mr. Allen?” Emma asked, when she recognized the driver of the coach, a groom from Woodscastle. Several dray carts pulled in behind the coach and fanned out to fill up the available floor space.

  Thomas straightened as a grin lifted his cheeks. “It is, indeed.” He glanced at Emma, but before he could say anything else, she was already hurrying back down the stairs, her bell skirts lifted well above her ankles.

  He followed her, hoping they weren’t about to be disappointed.

  Although he preferred having his only son in charge of the burgeoning Boston office, Thomas knew Graham would one day have to take over the London operation. Given how much the company had grown since Graham was last on British shores, it was far better he come home now and reacquaint himself with the business than to have to take over upon Thomas’ eventual death.

  A squeal of delight had several warehouse workers pausing in their labors, turning to see Emma embracing her son even before he had made it completely out of the coach in which he had arrived.

  A loud laugh announced Graham’s final step onto the warehouse floor. He was soon joined by his father, who rushed up to first shake his hand and then pull him into an hug.

  “By the gods, how tall are you?” Thomas asked as he regarded his son with a huge grin.

  “Six-feet-two is all. Mayhap an inch or more taller,” Graham replied, hiding the wince he felt upon seeing his father. Nearly two decades had passed since he had last seen his parents, and although his mother still appeared much as he remembered her, his father had visibly aged. Gray
hair had replaced the medium brown, and his cheeks were thinner, more hollow. He still stood straight, though, and he wasn’t thick around the middle.

  “I come bearing gifts, or at least everything I could manage to get on the Alanzaar,” Graham said happily, his gaze taking in the enormity of the warehouse. When he saw the evidence of newer bricks extending beyond the original south wall, he realized why it seemed so much larger than when he had last seen it. The east wall had been moved out, nearly doubling the size of the main warehouse.

  “Looks like you had the entire ship’s hold,” Thomas remarked as he took in the sight of all the dray carts.

  “Almost all of it. Some bloke had arranged for several crates of artifacts to be brought here to England.”

  “Artifacts?” Emma repeated.

  “Yes. For the British Museum,” he complained. “Can’t imagine there’s any room left there for the stuff.”

  Emma suppressed the urge to grin, realizing her son knew nothing of the expansion currently happening at the country’s largest museum—and his cousin Tom’s involvement in it. “I don’t suppose you noticed the name of the bloke who arranged for those shipments?” she teased as she waved a hand in the direction of the very crates to which he referred.

  Graham furrowed a brow before he rolled his eyes. “Tom didn’t say a word about it when I paid a call on him yesterday,” he complained.

  “Looks like you’ve brought us enough here to keep us busy until the day after tomorrow,” Thomas said as he motioned for Graham to follow him.

  Graham offered his arm to his mother, and Emma took it with a smile. “You look as if you’re getting enough to eat,” she said.

  “I am. Spent the night at Woodscastle, and Humphrey had breakfast ready for me in the dining room early this morning.”

  Emma’s mouth opened in surprise. “You arrived last night?”

  He immediately regretted his words. “I apologize. I thought you would be at Woodscastle,” he said. “Tom gave me a ride there. Filled me in on his situation.”

  “I’m so sorry you didn’t know to come to the townhouse,” Emma murmured. “But I suppose it was good you spent some time in your cousin’s company.”

  “Tom is certainly a different man than he was when I last heard from him in October,” Graham remarked.

  “Lady Grandby is the perfect wife for him,” Emma said as they climbed the stairs to the offices.

  “Which is his assessment as well,” Graham agreed. “He’s invited me to dinner on Monday evening, but...” He winced at remembering the invitation he had accepted for dinner at Harrington House.

  “But?”

  “I met someone. Last night. He insists I have dinner with his family Monday night.”

  “You’ll have dinner with us tonight, surely,” Emma said, hoping she didn’t sound as if she were begging.

  “Oh, I am counting on it, as is the cook at Woodscastle,” Graham replied with a grin. “Tomorrow night, as well, since it’s Easter.” They paused in front of Thomas’ office door and waited while he opened it.

  Emma entered and hurried to a set of double-doors in the back wall. She opened them both, which had light flooding the front office, before moving to where a stove not only provided heat but the means to make hot water for tea. She retrieved a tea set from a cupboard along with a canister of biscuits.

  “I remember when this used to be your office,” Graham said as his gaze swept the room. The south windows, much larger than they had been when he was a young boy, overlooked the Thames. A landscape painting, done by his aunt, Samantha Fitzsimmons Range, still hung where he remembered it, although now the wall was a fashionable painted ivory paneling rather than the dark wood it had been before.

  He noted how thick carpet now covered the entire floor, and Emma’s small escritoire had been replaced with a larger oak version, this one containing numerous drawers and cubbyholes stuffed with papers. Neat stacks of ledgers, quills and an ink pot filled the flat surface.

  “It still is, darling,” Emma murmured as she placed a kettle on the stove.

  “You don’t work with the clerks?”

  She shook her head. “I did for a time, but their wives objected to a woman sharing their office,” she said as she rolled her eyes. “So, I moved back in here.”

  “After some renovation, I see.”

  Grinning, she motioned for him to take a seat in the sofa that took up the short north wall. A low table was positioned in front of it, and an upholstered chair sat adjacent to the sofa.

  “Indeed. I arranged for gas lines to be installed in all the offices and the warehouse ceiling, added the lighting, and had carpet put down up here. The carpet has made such a difference, especially in the clerks’ office. It’s quieter up here—the sounds from downstairs aren’t so noticeable—and the offices seem much warmer in the winter months.”

  Graham watched as his father joined them, his attention on the paperwork that Graham had given him when they first stepped into the office. “Doubled the warehouse, too?” he half-asked.

  Thomas allowed a grunt. “That was a challenge, but necessary. May be again soon if business continues as it has.”

  “If your father had his way, this building would be attached to the the one that’s located north of here. But the city wouldn’t allow the road to be blocked,” Emma explained.

  “Imagine that,” Graham murmured, attempting to hide his humor.

  “I was willing to have a pass-through built to allow traffic to the Thames,” Thomas argued.

  “But let me guess. Wellingham Imports would have been the only concern allowed to use it,” Graham said with a grin.

  Thomas regarded his son with a combination of chagrin and appreciation. “It made sense at the time,” he replied.

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, we already owned the building east of here, so we put it to use. Added stables on one side and then made it into the export house.”

  “It’s smaller, so cargo has to be moved out more quickly,” Emma explained as she poured hot water into the teapot. “Especially after the sheep have been sheared.”

  “Wool exports,” Graham murmured, understanding her comment.

  “At the same time Merino wool arrives from Portugal,” Thomas put in. “Banks Textiles up in Darlington will take whatever we can bring in.”

  “And the transport business? To get the goods to wherever they’re to go? Are you still using horse-drawn coaches, or...?”

  Emma allowed a sigh as she settled into her chair and poured tea for the three of them. “As much as we would prefer to use steam-powered coaches—and we have a few—the tariffs are making it hard to justify employing them.”

  “Steam powered buses have been welcomed in London since they provide reliable transportation and stick to a schedule,” Thomas remarked, “but not so much out on the country roads.”

  “Yet, Tom has invested in a number of them,” Graham argued, remembering some of his conversation with his cousin from the afternoon before.

  “For the time being,” Thomas agreed. “He may have to move those investments to railways entirely, though. They don’t seem to suffer the challenges steam-powered vehicles are having to overcome in order to stay in business.”

  “And our business?” Graham asked before he took a drink of his tea. “If it’s anything like what’s happening in Boston, Sinclair will be needing to hire on an assistant of some sort,” he added, referring to his partner in the Boston office.

  Thomas and Emma exchanged quick glances. “As always, there’s too much business,” his mother said before she offered him the plate of biscuits. “I already sent word to Mr. Sinclair that he may hire a secretary.”

  “It’s a good thing you’ve decided to return to England,” his father said before helping himself to a biscuit. “Which has me wondering. Why now?”

  Graham’s eyes darted to his mother, and she immediately stiffened in her chair. “Because I wrote to him on the matter of Lord Harrington�
� death,” she admitted.

  His brows furrowing, Thomas pulled his gaze from Emma to regard his son. “You still hold a candle for Hannah?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I would have thought you might find a girl in Boston. The daughter of a merchant? Or a politician? A rich widow?”

  Graham shook his head. “Although they seem to think I would make a suitable husband, I am determined to renew my acquaintance with Lady Harrington,” he explained.

  “You’re holding her to the bargain?” Thomas asked, a soft huff sounding at the end.

  “I am,” Graham acknowledged with a nod, a bit annoyed his mother had apparently shared the secret with his father. “And given her mourning period is over and the Season is about to begin, I can think of no better time to collect.”

  Emma dipped her head. “I do wish the two of you the best,” she murmured. “And that you’ll find Hannah as amiable as you remember her.”

  “But?” Graham prompted, sure she was about to add another sentiment to her comment.

  “Will she find you as amiable? You are not the same young man who left here nearly seventeen years ago,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Graham’s first reaction was to argue. To scold his mother for what he saw as impertinence. But he let out a sound of disbelief as the corners of his lips lifted. “I believe she will find me more so,” he replied. “I am still the man she remembers. I still hold her in high regard. Besides, I have a champion on my side. One that can make all the difference.”

  “Oh?” Thomas asked. “You mean her mother, of course?”

  Graham bristled at the reference to Lady Simpson. For the entire time he’d been in Boston, he believed the Duke of Ariley’s aunt was the reason Hannah agreed to marry Charles Harrington. He could almost hate the woman for what he had assumed was a power play on her part to see her daughter wed to the heir to an earldom.

  His father’s words now called that assumption into question. “You are referring to Lady Simpson?” he asked carefully.

  Thomas nodded. “Of course. From the day you were born, she has said you and her daughter would be wed.”