Page 22 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

But was it correct to discount his contribution purely because it was easy for him to make?

She suspected her father would say not and, instead, maintain that the actions of men possessed the same intrinsic value regardless of wealth.

They reached the corner of King Street and Back Street, and she waved to their left. “It’s this way.”

As they strolled on, she asked, “Have you seen Rand and Felicia recently?”

He nodded. “After the wedding, I stayed at Raventhorne Abbey, and they visited several times—their last visit was just before I left to come here.” He glanced at her face. “They’re both well.” After a moment, he asked, “Does Felicia know you live here—in Bristol?”

She blinked, then, considering the question, frowned. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve mentioned the school—she knows all about that and my association with it—but I’m not sure I’ve actually told her I’ve removed to Bristol myself.” She glanced briefly his way and met his caramel eyes. “I do know she sent news of her wedding to my home in the country—my father sent it on.”

“And where is your home in the country?”

“Saltford. It’s a small town on the Bath Road between Bristol and Bath. My father has the living there.” She glanced at him. “Do you have a house in the country you call home?”

He looked ahead. “Not as such. The Abbey is now Ryder and Mary’s home and purely a place to visit.”

“No house in London?” She imagined a London rakehell of his wealth would definitely have a house in town.

“I used to share lodgings with Rand, but now… If I want to stay in town, I’ll just use my room in Raventhorne House in Mount Street.” His lips twisted wryly. “Truth to tell, I avoid London as much as I can.”

“You do?” That surprised her. “Why?”

He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “The more pertinent question would be: Why wouldn’t I?” When, at a loss, she blinked at him, he elaborated, “There’s nothing that attracts me in London, much less holds my interest. No yacht-building. No sailing of that sort.” He shrugged and looked at the pavement again. “Nothing I fancy.”

Nothing he fancied? Sylvia might have thought he was pulling her leg, but he looked and sounded utterly sincere and combined with what she’d seen of him and learned of him that day…

She was starting to suspect her earlier opinion of Kit Cavanaugh had been not just inaccurate but comprehensively in error.

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.