Chapter Three.

Jarret stared at the half-empty bottle of ale Miss Lake had left behind. Brewsters generally produced ale for their own taverns or families. To his knowledge, no woman other than Gran actually worked in the rough-and-ready atmosphere of a major brewery.

Was that why he'd let the chit's talk of an ill brother get under his skin? He should have tossed her out the minute she mentioned involving Plumtree Brewery in her plans. Because d.a.m.n if it didn't tempt him. It was just the sort of high-risk venture that sparked his interest ... and just the sort of high-risk venture he must avoid if he were to save the company from certain ruin.

With a heavy sigh, Jarret stared down at the numbers that had been plaguing him when Miss Lake first entered. Plumtree Brewery was in trouble. The Russian situation had lowered its profits dramatically, which explained why Gran had been desperate for someone to run the place.

This was no time for taking great risks with the company. While Miss Lake's plan could stanch the loss of profits from the gaping wound dealt by the Russians, it could also provide the killing blow. He couldn't chance it.

Still, a.s.suming that Miss Lake hadn't lied about brewing the ale herself, he had to admit she was good. He didn't profess to be an expert, though-it had been a long time since he'd looked at ale as anything other than a drink to accompany his meal.

Grandfather had been the expert. Jarret flashed on an image of the old man setting piles of malt before him to teach Jarret how to know which roast produced which sort of ale. Grandfather used to let him add the yeast to the fermentation vats, saying that one day the whole place would be his. As a boy, that had made him swell with pride and yearning ... until Gran had s.n.a.t.c.hed it all away.

He scowled. Now he was here again, smelling the wort and tasting the green beer. Thanks to her, it was as if nineteen years had melted away to nothing. Except that he no longer wanted to sacrifice his life to the brewery.

"Croft!" he barked.

The clerk appeared instantly in the doorway. Gran had been right: Croft might be awkward with strangers and possess an odd manner, but he knew Plumtree Brewery inside and out.

"Would you send Mr. Harper up here?"

"Of course, my lord. And may I say again how sorry I am that I allowed that woman to get past me. I didn't know what to tell her. You said not to let anyone know that Mrs. Plumtree is ill, and the woman kept asking questions-"

"It's fine, Croft. Everything is well." Gran had insisted that her illness be kept secret from all but her closest intimates. She didn't want her compet.i.tors swarming over the company like vultures if they thought it was in a weakened state.

"And how is your grandmother doing, if I may ask?"

"She was holding her own when I left her last night," Jarret evaded. But her color wasn't good, and she coughed a great deal.

As Croft hurried off to fetch Harper, Jarret worried. He'd expected Gran to revert to her usual self after their agreement. Instead, she'd worsened over the past week. Dr. Wright said she suffered from something called edema of the lungs and might never recover.

The thought of Gran dying made something twist in his belly. She'd always been there, her energy and pa.s.sion for the brewery making her larger than life. Even when she was fighting with them, she was the glue that held them together. If she died ...

She mustn't die. It was unthinkable.

"My lord? Mr. Croft said you wished to see me?"

He looked up to find Mr. Harper, the company's finest brewer, standing there with hat in hand. Jarret gestured to the bottle of ale. "I'd like your opinion on that October brew, Harper. There's a gla.s.s in the sideboard."

Gran kept her store of brandy in there. A faint smile touched his lips. Mother had always been mortified by the fact that her mother drank brandy, a very unladylike thing to do. But Gran was unlike most women.

Except, perhaps, for Miss Lake.

He scowled. Miss Lake was not like Gran, else he wouldn't have spent half their encounter wondering what lay beneath her outmoded gown of green wool. Short though she was, like a pixie venturing out from the forest, she had a woman's shapely figure-all soft curves and cunning temptations. And the one time she'd smiled at him ...

G.o.d, it had transformed her whole face, making her brown eyes sparkle and her lightly freckled cheeks flush. The dark curls that framed her face had hinted at the lush waves of shimmering mahogany that undoubtedly lay beneath her jaunty bonnet.

She had the look of a well-fed country la.s.s untouched by the city's foul stink. He liked earthy women, always had; he far preferred them to the elegant, gossipy b.i.t.c.hes who populated society. Miss Lake was the sort of female he could imagine dancing around maypoles and walking with her beau on the village green. The sort who considered any flirtation a prelude to marriage.

That's why he'd a.s.sumed that Gran had sent her. It was exactly something Gran would do-try to get him to hire some pretty female brewer in hopes that the woman would tempt him into marriage, so Gran could still get her way.

Miss Lake would certainly have been a good choice for such a plot. The minute she'd tipped up her pixie's nose at him, he'd wanted to go exploring beneath that bonnet and gown. Confound it all.

"Well?" he snapped as Harper sipped the ale, then sipped again.

"It's good. Better than most October brews I've tasted."

"d.a.m.n," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?" Harper asked.

He didn't want to have his opinion about the ale confirmed. He didn't want to hear that Miss Lake had a viable brew to sell, that she could make a go of her scheme if only he would cooperate.

"Are you considering the India market?" Harper said, startling him.

"Why do you ask?"

Harper shrugged. "With Hodgson's on the ropes and the Russians not buying, I've been thinking we should try our hand at a pale ale for the East India Company." When Jarret just stared at him, annoyed that everyone in creation seemed to know about Hodgson's but him, Harper added hastily, "I realize Mrs. Plumtree has been against it, but times are hard. It's worth another look."

"Tell me exactly what happened to Hodgson's that made the East India Company unhappy."

Harper explained a series of what sounded like unwise business practices to him, though he hadn't been around long enough to be sure. Much as he hated to admit it, Miss Lake's proposal sounded as if it had merit ... if he could trust her company to produce what she promised, which was by no means certain.

"Could you produce an October ale as good as that?" Jarret asked, flicking one hand toward the nearly empty bottle Harper had placed on the desk.

Harper colored. "Don't know as I could. That's a d.a.m.ned fine brew. I'd have to know the recipe. But Hodgson's wasn't any better than ours. We'd still have a chance of competing, if they're on the outs."

Burton water produces a better October brew than London water.

Jarret stared at the few ounces left in the bottom. "Thank you for your opinion, Harper. That will be all."

What did it matter if Miss Lake had produced an excellent ale for the India market? Just because she was moving to take advantage of Hodgson's foolish mistakes didn't mean he should risk all on her scheme.

If Lake Ale fails, forty men will lose their employment.

He scowled. That wasn't his concern. It wasn't his job to save every ailing brewery in the country. He'd have enough trouble saving this one.

This was precisely what he'd wanted to avoid-being drawn in to caring about something. He didn't want to end up like Gran. She'd struggled to gain her daughter a fine marriage, and instead her son-in-law had made her daughter miserable. She'd worked for years to put Plumtree Brewery at the top, and in one moment, a decision made by Russians halfway around the world had thrust her and the family company into difficulty.

That's what came of putting your heart into something. A man could do everything right, and Fate could still jerk the rug out from under him.

Now he had no choice. Though he'd been dealt a bad hand, he had to make the most of it. Plumtree must survive if his family was to survive, and it looked as if he was the only one who could make sure that it did.

No, it had to do more than survive-he had to make it stronger than before, so he could walk away at the end of the year without any guilt. So he could return to his life as a gambler, where his only risk was monetary, where he wasn't tempted to care. Where he understood that life was unpredictable and nothing could be counted on.

Miss Lake would have to find another fool to back her and her brother's risky scheme.

All I ask is that you present my proposal to your grandmother.

He snorted. Gran was even less likely to embrace the plan than he. But he'd promised the chit he would present it, so he would.

A knock came at his door, and he looked up to find his friend Giles Masters standing there.

With a smile, he jumped to his feet. "What the devil are you doing here?"

As a barrister of some renown, Masters spent his days arguing cases halfway across town.

"I've come to drag you away from all this," Masters said with a sweep of his hand. "Your brother told me that you weren't joining us for our whist game tonight, and that's unacceptable."

"You say that only because I've been losing lately, and you want to make some money off me for a change."

Masters struck his chest in mock horror. "Can't your oldest and dearest friend merely want you to join him in an evening of scintillating conversation and manly pursuits?"

"Is that what you call it?" Jarret eyed him askance. "The last time we gambled at one of Plumtree Brewery's taverns, you and Gabe got drunk and competed to see who could fart the loudest. You won, as I recall. To the detriment of everyone in the room."

"Ah, but I did it while being brilliantly witty. So there you have it-scintillating conversation and manly pursuits." He waved his hand toward the door. "Now come along. Those of us who actually need to slave away during the daytime hours desire entertainment, and we won't tolerate refusals from those like you who only dabble in a profession."

For some reason, Jarret didn't like being regarded as a dabbler. "Why play whist when we lack a fourth?" he said sourly. "And I hate to upset your apple cart, but even after Oliver returns from America, he may not join us at the tables very often. He's turned into a sober married man, more's the pity."

Masters sighed. "Your brother and mine both. A good bachelor is hard to find. That's why the rest of us must stick together." He grinned. "Besides, we have a fourth. Gabe convinced Pinter to join us."

"Pinter! You mean the b.l.o.o.d.y fellow didn't scowl and protest that cards are a frivolous pastime?"

"He's not so bad, you know. He's a good sport, and once in a while he even has a sense of humor. Come along, and you'll see that for yourself."

Jarret glanced at the piles of papers on the desk. He'd been poring over the books for days, and no great solution to the brewery's problems had presented itself. Perhaps he could think better if he cleared his head. And how better than with a good game of cards, a few tankards of Plumtree's best porter, and a tumble with a tavern maid?

Miss Lake swam into his mind, her pretty eyes beseeching him for help, and he cursed under his breath. He could talk to Gran in the morning.

Besides, he'd been planning to speak to the Bow Street Runner about tracking down the former Halstead Hall grooms. Might as well do it tonight. "All right. Lead on."

ANNABEL FOLLOWED LORD Jarret and his dark-haired companion from the brewery. Was the other fellow Lord Jarret's brother, joining him to visit their grandmother? She was having a hard time keeping up with their long-legged strides without breaking into a run. Sometimes being short could be terribly inconvenient.

It didn't help that there were men and boys with advertising boards everywhere, blocking her view. And she kept having to resist the urge to gaze at the wonders she was rushing past-the enticing millineries filled with the latest fashions in bonnets, the print shops with their outrageous and colorful displays, and the vendors hawking mouthwatering sausages or ornaments for fire stoves or even cures for syphilis.

She blushed as she pa.s.sed the latter. That wasn't something she saw on the streets of Burton.

It took the gentlemen fifteen minutes to reach their destination. When it turned out to be a tavern, she halted in front of it, incensed. So much for Lord Jarret's promise! She should have known a man like that wouldn't do as he said.

Unless they were just stopping in for a drink before they visited their grandmother? That was possible. The tavern bore a sign that read, "We sell Plumtree Brewery's best," and a company tavern would be a logical choice for the grandsons of the owner to have a drink, would it not?

Now she had to decide: Wait out here until they came back out? Or go in?

Waiting wasn't a good plan. Night was falling, and London was notorious for its footpads. But she couldn't give up her chance to learn Mrs. Plumtree's whereabouts.

Fortunately, it was early enough that the people entering the tavern tended to be workmen and couples seeking a quick supper. She'd be less noticeable now than at any other time. So she walked in and took a table near Lord Jarret's. She kept her head down and ordered a meal, figuring that would allow her more time to linger.

But before the food came, two more gentlemen joined Lord Jarret's party. Clearly this wasn't a casual drink between brothers. When they called for a pitcher and broke out the cards, she knew precisely what it was. A night on the town.

G.o.d rot Lord Jarret! He clearly had no intention whatsoever of speaking to his grandmother about her proposal. Now what should she do?

An hour, a kidney pie, and a pint later, she still hadn't decided what to do. But she'd gleaned some information.

The dark-haired man wasn't Lord Jarret's brother, but an old friend named Masters, who was apparently also a man of rank. Lord Jarret's actual brother was the man with the golden-brown hair, Lord Gabriel, who enjoyed tormenting the other two with frequent allusions to their advanced age.

The fourth man, whom they called Pinter, was a black-haired, raspy-voiced fellow with a quiet, almost somber manner. Though he didn't share their joviality, he occasionally made a dry remark that appeared to startle them. She couldn't tell if he was their friend or just along for the ride. He didn't seem to have any sort of rank. He was also the only one who didn't flirt outrageously with the tavern maids.

As best she could tell, Lord Jarret and his brother had been winning fairly steadily. The other two men were grumbling about it.

Curious to see what their game was, she rose and pa.s.sed as close to the table as she dared. They were playing whist. She lingered near Lord Jarret long enough to see that he was quite good, which was probably why he and his brother were winning.

The man named Masters called for another pitcher of ale. "What happened to your losing streak, Jarret?" he complained as he threw down his cards.

A smug smile touched the lord's lips. "You and Pinter don't present much of a contest."

"I beg your pardon," Pinter said, "but I've had the devil's worst hands. Even skill can't trump bad luck."

"That's as good an excuse as any," Lord Jarret taunted him. "What's yours, Masters? Shall we up the stakes, give you a chance to win your money back? I need a good challenge."

"Oh, yes, let's up the stakes, big brother," Lord Gabriel said cheerily. "Seeing as how you've regained your touch and all."

Too bad she couldn't join them. She knew exactly what stakes she'd ask for. She'd been playing cards with her family all her life, starting with her parents and Hugh, then adding Geordie and Sissy after she'd left home and Geordie had grown old enough to grasp the rules. Although they hadn't played much recently because of Hugh's ...

Tears stung her eyes. Curse Hugh for his weakness. She missed her sweet big brother. He hadn't been himself in some time. Though she suspected she knew why he'd begun drinking so heavily, it didn't make it any better.

Pinter tossed down his cards. "If you up the stakes, I'm out. The magistrate's office doesn't pay me enough to gamble like you lords."

"Do you think we barristers have money to burn?" Masters grumbled. "I a.s.sure you, we do not."

"But you have a rich brother to cover your losses," Pinter pointed out.

"Stop being a stick in the mud," Masters said. "I told Jarret you were a good sport. Are you going to make a liar out of me? If you quit, I'll have to quit, too, and I'll have no chance to win my money back."

"Not my problem." Pinter drained his tankard and set it down with every appearance of being done.

Annabel quickly stepped forward and lowered the hood of the cloak. "I'm happy to take his place."

Did she imagine it, or had the entire room gone completely still?

Lord Jarret's eyes narrowed on her. "Miss Lake. Fancy seeing you here."

She hid her trembling hands in the pockets of her cloak. "I'd even be willing to up the stakes, if Lord Jarret would play for something that really matters."