Lucy Ashford - The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

Belle’s heart sank anew. ‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Jenny told me about it. It appears that when you and I were measuring Lady Tindall in the back workshop for her new gown, a customer came in and complained about a cuff that was loose on a pelisse she bought last week.’

‘What did Jenny do?’

‘She mended it there and then, and the customer left—but she was so unpleasant, Jenny said! And she declared she would not be using our shop in the future!’

‘Well, it sounds as if we’re better off without her,’ Belle soothed and Gabby went off, looking happier, to tidy the workroom. Originally from Paris, the lively French girl had come to Belle’s notice when she’d advertised for an assistant seamstress and Gabby had proved invaluable, good both with the customers and with the two girls Belle also employed.

In addition, it did no harm that Matt was smitten by Gabby—honest, stolid Matt Bellamy, who worked most of the time at his brother’s stables just down the road, but was a joiner by trade. Belle had hired him to fit out her shop and he continued to do odd jobs for her. Though Gabby teased Matt outrageously, Belle could see that secretly Matt adored her.

Together against the world, Belle and her staff were a good team. But— Edward . Her brother had flushed with anger when she’d mentioned gambling dens, yet Belle couldn’t help remembering that when he’d first come into his inheritance the lure of the gaming parlours had pulled him time and time again to London.

Marriage to Charlotte had at least cured her brother of that particular weakness. But trouble was still lurking, clearly. In fact, Belle felt that nothing had been quite right in her life since she’d clashed with the forbidding quarryman on Sawle Down. Just the thought of that encounter sent ripples of unease through her.

Stay away from me! she’d lashed out at him. Why had she been so rude, so hateful to him? Because he was clad so roughly? Because he was employed by Mr Davenant?

She’d never even met Davenant, but one thing was for sure. If he ever learned of the insults she’d uttered about him that day, then she and Edward were finished for good.

London—four days later

Adam Davenant had issued the invitations to the meeting at his house in Clarges Street only yesterday, but despite the short notice every single person had come and he was under no illusions as to why. Quite a few of them had never visited his Mayfair mansion, and they would all be desperate to get inside and assess his wealth.

Greeting them, he’d cynically noted how their eyes leapt out on stalks as they registered the expensive if discreet furnishings. The number of liveried servants. The superb wine and food on offer. Everything was perfect; it damned well had to be when people were all too keen to rake up your lowly origins.

Though the plentiful wine was perhaps a mistake, Adam decided as the boasting grew louder amongst the rich and ruthless men who’d gathered to feed on the cold repast set out on the vast table in his first-floor dining room. When the boasting began to turn to bickering, Adam knew it was time to start the real business of the day. He rose to his feet at the head of the table and, as was his way, stated his case bluntly.

‘In Somerset there’s stone to be quarried that’s as good for building, gentlemen, as any in the world. With London expanding so rapidly there’s a never-ending market, and all of us—whether landholders or business investors—stand to gain. But the issue I wish to discuss today is—transport.’

Adam was dressed impeccably in black with a snow-white, plain cravat and he made an imposing figure. Though not yet thirty, he carried the authority of a man who was accustomed to power.

He carried the authority of money.

All eyes were on him as he turned to point to the large map hung on the wall behind him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he went on, in the polished voice in which there was no trace of his grandfather’s west country vowels. ‘What we need is a railway to convey this fine new stone from the Somerset quarries to the Avon canal and thence by water to London.’

‘There are railways already, Davenant,’ someone called out.

‘You mean tramways for trucks, pulled by horses or powered by gravity,’ replied Adam. ‘I’m talking about a steam railway. All of us with goods to transport from Bath to London—not just stone, but farm produce and manufactured goods, too—would benefit. The carrying times would be halved and the profits doubled.’

Already several men were nodding and murmuring agreement. But Lord Rupert Jarvis—who had, Adam noted, been eating and drinking steadily since he arrived—was sneering openly. ‘You mean your profits doubled, Davenant. Not mine.’

The blond-haired Jarvis, as well as possessing large estates in Somerset, owned a big haulage business with networks of carriages and teams of horses all across the south of England. Known to be a cruel master of both men and beasts, Jarvis saw the emergence of the railways as the coming of Satan.

Adam countered him with icy calmness. ‘There’s still room for all forms of transport, Lord Jarvis. But we cannot ignore the chances that steam offers. Some of you will already know that the Yorkshire mine owner Charles Brandling has been using steam engines to carry his coal to the ports for years. I’m proposing that each of us become shareholders in this new Somerset railway. And apart from the profit motive, we’ll all be aware, I’m sure, that a railway would spare our men and horses much hard labour.’

‘Siding with the workers, Davenant? They’re damned lucky to have jobs,’ said the sleekly dressed, coldly handsome Jarvis crudely. ‘If they aren’t up to it, tell ‘em to get their wives or brats to help out. That’s what I do.’ He looked challengingly round at the assembled company.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Adam. His chiselled face was expressionless, but his grey eyes were hard as granite. A tense silence had fallen.

Jarvis leaned back in his chair. ‘Show us your route, Davenant,’ he said challengingly. ‘Doubtless you’ve got it all worked out.’

Adam turned and pointed to his map. ‘Here’s the city of Bath, with the stone quarries to the south and the River Avon flowing close by. And here —’ he pointed again ‘—is the canal that links the Avon to the Thames, offering seventy miles of navigable waterway. You’ll see that the most practical route for a new railway would be from Monkton Sawle straight to the canal as it runs south, just before it swings east out of Somerset.’

There were murmurs and nods of assent. Then Jarvis, who’d been demolishing another portion of venison pie, cut in, ‘I suppose you realise you’ll need to cross my land for the last half-mile of your proposed railway?’

‘In order to reach the canal at Limpley Stoke, yes, I would need to cross your land,’ said Adam. ‘Just as I’d need the consent of the other landholders gathered here today who would be affected. It’s in all our interests, beyond doubt.’

‘Like hell it is,’ growled Jarvis, wiping pastry crumbs off his lips. ‘And I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m off, to another more interesting appointment.’

Adam politely indicated the plate on which stood the remainder of the venison pie. ‘Certainly. But I would hate you to leave hungry. Shall I ask one of the servants to wrap up the rest of that pie so you can take it with you?’

There was a stunned silence. Then someone chuckled and began to applaud; Jarvis’s appetite for a free meal was well known.

Jarvis pushed back his chair angrily. ‘Damn you, Davenant,’ he muttered and hurried from the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Some of the others spoke up then. ‘I’m with you, Adam,’ said Tobias Bartlett firmly.

‘And me.’ ‘Yes, you can count me in on your scheme, Davenant.’ More pledges of support echoed round the room.

But there was still the problem of damned Jarvis; the big map made it all too clear that Jarvis’s acres of land at Limpley Stoke barred the most direct route between Adam’s quarry and the canal. Any other route would add miles to the journey.

‘It’s not as if Jarvis makes much use of that land anyway,’ Adam’s friend Bartlett was grumbling. ‘And surely he realises he could expect a hefty share of your profits if he negotiated with you?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Adam softly, ‘that Jarvis’s motive is based on thoughts of profit.’

Siding with the workers, Davenant? Jarvis had sneered.

Well, sometimes Adam wished he and Jarvis could resolve their differences like common workmen—with their fists. Then he would knock Jarvis’s block off.

He looked thoughtfully down at his strong hands. As a boy at Eton, Adam had briefly been taunted with Miner Tom’s name—until he’d pummelled the sneers from his rash tormentors’ faces. On coming into his fortune he’d learnt to fend off his detractors in equally efficient ways. Both in his manners and attire he was unpretentious but faultless, never letting his cool façade slip. Being mighty rich he was happily accepted by most of society, especially by those who had daughters to marry off.

Jarvis, despite his oily good looks and title, was secretly despised by the ton for his coarse behaviour. If it wasn’t for his damned land, Adam would have been happy to cut him dead—or thump him.

A young housemaid came in just then with more good wine from Adam’s cellars. Adam didn’t partake—he didn’t enjoy fuddling his wits—but went instead to join the group who’d gone to pore again over the map of Somerset.

‘If Jarvis won’t give way, Adam,’ a Somerset neighbour was suggesting, ‘you could take the railway down the valley to Midford then head north—see?—to skirt his estates for the last mile. As I said, I would happily sell some land to you in return for some shares in the project.’

Adam was heartened that so many of these men were, like him, all for progress. ‘We’ll manage without Jarvis somehow,’ he said. ‘Though if we do head north, we’ll have to blast some of the higher contours out of the way, here, and here …’

‘It’ll be worth it,’ said another Somerset landowner eagerly. ‘Davenant, you mentioned the coal mines in the north-east; I’ve heard rumours that Stephenson up in Stockton is planning to transport people as well as coal on his railways! Steam is the future, and this scheme of yours gets my backing, if only to take the sneer off Jarvis’s face. The way he treats his men and his horses is despicable. Thank God he left early, is all I can say. We can make some progress now, Adam … Adam?’

‘Hmm?’

It didn’t happen often, but Adam, by the window, was temporarily distracted. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off a remarkably shabby carriage that had just pulled up at the far end of Clarges Street, from which a woman was getting out; a woman wearing a big straw hat and dressed in a startling ensemble of turquoise and pink as striking on her pert figure as icing on a festive cake. She was probably an expensive courtesan, Adam decided, hired by one of his wealthy neighbours for an afternoon of bed sport. Shrugging, he turned back to his guests—then paused again.

Something about her looked familiar. The way she stepped proudly out of that ridiculous carriage. The slenderness of her waist, outlined by her short pink jacket; the swell of her deliciously trim derrière as she stood on tiptoe to say something to her coachman …