Page 58 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

“All right. We agree he’s going to come back,” Kit said. “When?”

Grimly, Wayland said, “Either tonight, Saturday night, or Sunday night. Why wait? The sooner he can hit us again, the more damage he’ll do to our business.”

Kit nodded. “Which night will probably depend on how urgent he feels his need to attack us is.”

Wayland met Kit’s eyes. “We need to set up a watch.”

Kit stared at his friend while he thought, then said, “Given we don’t know who this blackguard is—what his past association with us is or why he’s targeted Cavanaugh Yachts—then I suggest we don’t involve the men.” He refocused on Wayland’s eyes. “Not until we know what this is all about.”

Wayland nodded. “I agree. Especially as neither you nor I have a clue what the man’s motive is.”

“Also, judging by the damage he did last time, it seems he’s acting alone, so the two of us should be sufficient to the task.”

Wayland grinned. “Quite like old times.” Then he sobered. “You don’t think he’ll hire others to help him?”

Kit thought, then shook his head. “What he’s doing is illegal, and the damage he alone can do will be sufficient to cause us major problems. Why invite witnesses?”

Wayland conceded with a tip of his head. He started gathering up the chain. “So we’ll start our watch tonight.”

Kit hadn’t forgotten the concert. “There’s an event I have to attend this evening, but I’ll return here after that. I doubt I’ll be much later than ten o’clock.” More was the pity, but he’d accepted that, with Sylvia, there was a definite limit to how far he might advance that night.

Wayland had placed the chain on the floor and was looking at a diagram. Distractedly, he said, “I can’t imagine our blighter will make a move before that.”

“Indeed.” Kit bent and picked up the chain. “I’ll take this out to the door, then come back. I want to go over the deck plan again.”

Without taking his eyes from his sketch, Wayland gave vent to a chuff of frustrated agreement.

Kit hefted the chain and turned to the door. Tonight looked set to be a long night—he hoped it also proved eventful, one way or the other or both.

CHAPTER 12

Sylvia stared at the cheval glass in her bedroom. She was holding her two favorite evening gowns against her—first one, then the other—trying to decide which made her look more the sort of lady people would expect to see gracing Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s arm.

“Mauve?” she muttered, holding up the first gown. “Or pale green?” She swung the second gown into place, then, undecided, repeated the exercise yet again.

The realization that she would be going to the concert with a bona fide scion of the nobility had dawned on her as she’d hurried home that afternoon. Kit Cavanaugh was a lord born and bred, something she’d largely forgotten over the past weeks of working alongside him, grappling with school affairs and hearing of his business successes. Over that time, the man she’d seen was so very different from the image of Lord Kit Cavanaugh that she’d carried in her head for years that she’d fallen into the habit of thinking of the here-and-now man as someone quite separate—as a gentleman far more worthy of her attention.

He was still Lord Kit Cavanaugh.

And tonight, at least half of Bristol society would see her on his arm.

“Oh, God.” She wasn’t given to taking the Lord’s name in vain, but the situation seemed to warrant it. She stared at her reflection and almost wailed, “Which one?”

A tap sounded on the door. She whirled as it opened, revealing Mrs. Macintyre, who she’d asked to come up and help with her laces.

Seeing her hovering in indecision, Mrs. Macintyre tsked. “Still not ready?” Then she raked her gaze over the two gowns and declared, “It’s obvious—the green one with that pretty lace. That shade makes your skin look as if it’s glowing and your hair appear more golden.”

Sylvia blew out a breath and laid aside the mauve gown. “All right.” She felt breathless and strangely giddy, and her nerves were all but twanging. She couldn’t recall feeling this way during her London Season, much less at any other time. She shrugged out of her robe and started climbing into the apple-green silk gown with its fullish skirt and lightly embroidered bodice and overskirt.

“Wait.” Mrs. Macintyre stepped behind her, flicked loose her corset strings, then wrenched them a great deal tighter.

Sylvia gasped at the sudden constriction that locked about her ribs and waist. “I need to breathe!”

“Not that much, you don’t. And you want to make the most of the assets God gave you.” Ruthlessly, Mrs. Macintyre tied off the strings, then peered over Sylvia’s shoulder.

Sylvia followed her landlady’s gaze to the mirror to see her breasts mounding above the corset’s bodice, while her waist was nipped to the point a man’s hands could span it and the curve of her hips was an attractive line.

“There!” Mrs. Macintyre beamed. “That’s better.”