The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Stephanie Laurens
“we wouldn’t have if we’d had to move the desks without help.” She caught Kit’s eye. “Again, thank you.”
You can thank me by not tarring me with an undeserved brush. Kit held the words back; he had no idea why her opinion of him should matter so much. All he knew was that it did. Smiling easily, he waved at the empty space. “This is my reward.”
She smiled back, then crossed to the door.
As the boys, each laden with packages, trudged up to the door, Sylvia blinked at the leading pair; the two oldest lads were carrying three packages each, their arms wrapped awkwardly about the bundles. “Boys, are you sure you can manage those?”
“Yes, miss,” the pair chorused. “We’ll manage.”
She hesitated, clearly unsure.
Standing behind her shoulder, Kit ducked his head and spoke softly, for her ears alone. “Let them go—they’re trying to do what they think they should in clearing the place completely. We’ll be following close behind, after all.”
Sylvia nodded at the pair. “Just take care. If you get into difficulties, please wait, and we’ll be along shortly.”
Kit could have told her that was a futile instruction; the last thing the lads would want was for him to see them fail in their self-appointed task.
As the oldest lads departed, the other four trailed up to the door.
One boy fixed Kit with an eager look. “Is it true, then, your lordship, that there’ll be food and cider for us all?”
Kit smiled. “Yes—for everyone who helped move the school, and that definitely includes all you boys.”
The lad beamed, then turned to the boy behind him. “Told you. His lordship’s no pinchpenny.”
With a confident smile for Kit, the first boy led the way out, those behind him looking grateful and eager as well.
“You’ve made friends there,” Sylvia commented.
Kit glanced at her and arched a brow. “Boys are easy to bribe—food almost always works.”
She chuckled, then looked at the book pile; only two packages remained. “We can take those, and then, I believe, you will have your wish—the warehouse properly and thoroughly vacated and ready for your men to move in.”
Kit crossed to the packages and hoisted both up, tucking them under one arm. “I didn’t imagine we’d be this efficient, either, so we’ll have to wait until morning for the delivery of the timbers we’ll need, but come morning, we’ll be here.”
His heart lifted at the thought.
He followed Sylvia out of the open doors and helped her tug them shut. She secured the simple latch with the padlock, turned the key, then offered it to him. “I believe this is now yours.”
Kit accepted the key and dropped it into his pocket. “Thank you.”
In companionable mood, they set out to catch up with the boys.
Sylvia found herself inwardly marveling. Not just at the fact they’d managed to move the school, lock, stock, and barrel, in just one morning, but also that the transfer had run so smoothly.
A boon she was well aware she owed to the man striding so easily beside her.
She glanced sidelong at him—just a quick glance, enough to take in his relaxed, confident, and assured expression. Just long enough to sense again the tug on her senses. That hadn’t abated with exposure, much as she’d hoped it would; he remained a lodestone for her senses, for her attention. Indeed, if anything, the result of spending more time in his company had only increased the intensity of what, in her view, remained a dangerous attraction.
For as long as she’d been aware of it—from the first month of her London Season—Kit Cavanaugh’s reputation had painted him as a charming, dangerously flirtatious nobleman, one who was wealthy but indolent, who meant nothing by anything he said, and who was very much a care-for-naught—the sort of gentleman all sane young ladies and all careful parents avoided like the plague.
Yet the man by her side was none of that.
He definitely wasn’t the gentleman she’d met at Felicia’s wedding...or perhaps he was the same, but she’d assumed he was quite different.
The Kit Cavanaugh she’d seen over the past days was a gentleman of a very different stripe.
The sort of gentleman who could be good company, but who had a serious side. A practical side. On top of that, he seemed to know how to deal with people, especially those not of his class.
She’d met enough aristocrats to know that wasn’t a widely held talent.
Quite what she thought of the Kit Cavanaugh who was walking beside her, she wasn’t entirely sure.
Was what he was now showing her of him real? Or was this the façade?
“Careful.” Kit gripped Sylvia’s elbow to steer her safely across the cobbles of King Street.
His touch sent thrills lancing up her arm; her breath caught, but he gave no sign of noticing, and once they’d reached the wider expanse of Broad Quay, he released her and resumed his steady pacing alongside her.
She decided she was not going to look his way; instead, she surveyed the pedestrians before them. “I haven’t yet caught sight of the boys—they must have rushed ahead.”
It was close to noon, and the crowds on the quay limited how far she could see.
Head raised, Kit was scanning the throng. “A couple of the boys are approaching the bridge.”
As she and Kit neared the drawbridge over the Frome, she got a clear view of the two oldest lads; more heavily burdened, the pair were trudging doggedly along. The other boys with their lighter loads must have gone ahead; there was no sign of them. As by Kit’s side, she wove through the crowd, making for the steps leading up to the drawbridge, she saw the two lads struggle up the stone steps, heave their loads higher in their arms, and tramp out onto the wooden span.
She and Kit were almost at the steps when she heard a loud hail.
Looking up at the bridge, she saw the two school lads being bailed up by a gang of older youths. The four youths pushed and taunted the two schoolboys; it was blatantly apparent that the gang thought to enliven their day by making the younger lads drop their precious packages over the bridge’s railing into the churning waters below.
“Oh, no!” Sylvia tensed to run forward, but Kit thrust the packages he’d been carrying at her feet, all but tripping her.
“Wait here and watch those.”
She had little choice as he strode to the rescue, taking the steps up to the bridge in two strides, then descending on the pack of louts like an avenging angel.
The gang saw him coming and paused, instantly recognizing a predator of much higher status than they. But they didn’t back away from the schoolboys. Instead, the youths waited, assuming Kit—who, whatever he wore or wherever he was, carried his status like a mantle—would stride disinterestedly past and leave their victims to them.
Kit assessed the situation with a keen eye, then veered to halt behind the two schoolboys. He dropped a hand on each lad’s shoulder. “Is there some problem here?”
He directed the question to the lout he judged to be the leader of the gang, a gangling youth of perhaps seventeen years.
Kit allowed his gaze to dwell, coldly, on the youth’s pasty face and waited with icy calm.
Beneath his hands, he felt the two school lads straighten, confidence returning. One of them said, “Don’t